


Out of Time

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Look I Just Need To Make Everything OK, M/M, Misunderstandings, Original Character(s), Pining, Post Cannon Fix It Fic, Slow Burn, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29919969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: When he wakes back on the ship, it is at first not particularly disorienting. He had, after all, spent almost four years living on board Terror. To come to consciousness slowly, helped along toward wakefulness by the familiar creaking of the ice and the incessant sound of the wind outside…it’s familiar, soothing almost. It takes Thomas Jopson a few moments to remember that this was not at all where he’d fallen asleep.
Relationships: Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I decided to write a self indulgent, multi-chapter science fiction, time travel fix it fic for a rarepair ship. 
> 
> I need to give credit to Kage Baker's book _In The Garden Of Iden._ I totally borrowed some basic plot points from that novel. It's soooo good, so I'd recommend reading it. 
> 
> If anyone does actually read this, updates will be pretty regular, but I have no clue how many chapters there will be, nor really exactly where the plot will go. This is really about me letting myself explore a very elaborate way to make my otp (cropson) happy, and to enjoy a sweet little side dish of Goodsir/Lady Silence in the mix. 
> 
> Not beta read. Hope you enjoy!!

When he wakes back on the ship, it is at first not particularly disorienting. He had, after all, spent almost four years living on board Terror. To come to consciousness slowly, helped along toward wakefulness by the familiar creaking of the ice and the incessant sound of the wind outside…it’s familiar, soothing almost. It takes Thomas Jopson a few moments to remember that this was not at all where he’d fallen asleep. 

_ Had he fallen asleep? _ He can’t seem to remember anything that happened immediately before waking, he only knows that he was not on board Terror, and now he is. He has a distant memory of feeling ill. He does not feel ill now. Only tired. Tired to the very marrow of his bones. Perhaps he’d had a bit too much to drink?

Drink…. It was Captain Crozier that did most of the drinking on Terror. Thomas would join him every once in a great while, for a conciliatory toast. To celebrate an occasion; Jopson’s birthday, (when his Captain insisted), or for Christmas and Easter. But not much more than that. Thomas’ memories of his mother’s ghoulish face and empty eyes, destroyed on Laudanum, well, it kept him away from hitting the bottle too often. Watching Crozier slowly turn the prow of his life’s ship in that same direction had been very hard for Thomas to witness. 

But… hadn’t Crozier quit drinking? Yes, he’d most certainly done so right before the carnival. Right before they’d...decided to… 

And then his thoughts become hazy and drift away, like puffs of condensed air on a frigid breeze, and he passes into sleep.

________

He wakes again and notices he’s more comfortable than usual, warmer than he’s been in years. He cannot quite remember why he felt pain, but he knows that he felt it quite severely and for a long time, and this is experienced mostly by the complete, blissful lack of any sort of pain now inhabiting his body. He feels completely well. Whole and warm and not even hungry. 

This time, instead of staying in his quarters or lying again on his bed and drifting back off, goes in search of Captain Crozier. He has a job to do after all. His Captain needs breakfast, and a shave, and assistance with getting on his uniform. Why hadn’t Thomas done that the last morning he’d woken? Dozing back to sleep, just because one is comfortable enough to do so is no excuse for slacking off in such a shameful manner. 

Thomas can’t comprehend why he’d commit such an abominable lapse of his duties, but he plans on making up for it by being extra attentive this morning. He is suddenly struck with a sharp pang of worry that Crozier is somehow not here. That he’s left… left Jopson behind… What a strange thing to think. Captain Crozier would never abandon him, nor any of his men. He’d never leave a man behind who still lived.

His mouth is dry and there is a glass of water on the table by his bunk, and he gulps it down eagerly. He does his morning toilet with water that is suspiciously warm, then shaves, so that he does not present himself to his Captain in slovenly looking whiskers. He dresses neatly and with care, and as he does so, he notes that his clothing appears freshly washed and smells of lavender and some other pleasant, floral scent. His clothing has not truly been cleaned well for years and this makes him wonder who took the time to do such a thing so thoroughly. Nevertheless, his job awaits, and so he smooths down his hair and takes one last glance in the small mirror hanging from the wall across from his bed before stepping out into the hall. 

It’s eerily silent, and he walks from corridor to corridor, past room after empty room with a rising thrill of apprehension curled inside his chest. The ship is empty. The mess hall, the officer’s cabins and the hammocks, all empty. He feels a mounting sense of dread at the thought that his Captain will not be here either. That he’s been left alone to wander this empty ship for the rest of his life. This thought ignites a twist of panic, deep in his gut that he tries to shove down and dismiss with little success. He has no desire to poke at the reason behind this feeling, he only knows he won’t rest until he can lay eyes on his Captain. 

He knocks softly on Captain Crozier’s door, the sound of his knuckles against the wood ringing too loud in the tomb like silence of the empty ship. It’s only accompaniment is the pounding of his heart.

“Come!” The sound of Crozier’s voice through the door is possibly the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. He lets out a gust of a relieved sigh and pushes open the door to the Captain’s quarters. And there stands Crozier, in his shirtsleeves. His hair is a bit mussed and he needs a shave, but he’s there, and well, and looking reassuringly grouchy as if Thomas’ knock has just woken him. 

His eyes though, light up when he sees Thomas, and Thomas barely restrains the urge to throw his arms around Crozier and embrace him. “Captain Crozier!! It’s awfully good to see you sir!” His heart swells with joy and affection, and he watches a bright smile bloom across Crozier’s handsome, rugged face.

“Jopson! My but you’re a sight for sore eyes!” The Captain strides forward and grips Thomas by his upper arms, giving him a little shake with the enthusiasm of his greeting. “I’ve just now managed to drag my bones out of bed. I’ve no idea what’s transpired in the past few days. Have you any clue?”

“None sir,” Thomas replies with a grimace. “Sorry to say sir, but I’ve been asleep. Must have been ill. I just couldn’t seem to get up. And I must apologize Captain, for the frightful lack of-”

“Shush now Jopson. I had no need of you, and it sounds like whatever illness I came down with was afflicting you as well. I could not seem to stay awake for what felt like a few days, and I was dreadfully tired.”

“I as well sir,” Jopson replies. “Couldn’t seem to stay awake. Do you remember what happened before you took to your bed? I could have sworn we left the ship, but cannot remember where we went.”

“I thought so too,” Crozier’s brow is furrowed in confusion. “We had plans to walk south in search of rescue. And now we are all back here, on board as if nothing happened?” He looks precisely as confused as Thomas feels. Thomas is again struck with a wave of gratitude to not only have company aboard the Terror, but to have the best company he could ever wish for. Crozier is strong willed, intelligent, resourceful and has a sharp sense of humor that Thomas has grown to greatly appreciate in the years they’ve worked closely together. He could not be happier to be stuck with his Captain. 

“Sir,” Thomas doesn’t wish to impart bad news, but it can’t be helped. “The ship is empty sir.”

“Empty?” Crozier looks at him, eyebrows climbing in surprise. 

“Yes. I cannot find another living soul, other than you and I.”

“But, where are all the men?”

“I have no idea sir. I haven’t gone up on deck yet. I wanted to find you first.”

“Well then, I’ll get dressed and we can go up together and have a look see.”

________

They dress warmly and head topside to investigate. The first thing that’s made immediately clear is that they’re still on the pack ice. Frozen white extends in all directions. The ship sits, flat on the ice beneath her, unslanted and solid as the day they were first stuck there. The land all around them is as flat as a plate. Gone are the crags and towers of jagged ice that once surrounded Terror. 

The second thing they notice, quite quickly, is that the Erebus is gone. There’s nothing but frozen wasteland in all directions and the Erebus is nowhere to be seen. They both stare numbly at the empty space where they know the other ship should be, mouths gaping in shock. It is a thing that defies all earthly explanation.

The third thing that becomes apparent is that they’ve dressed a bit too warmly. The temperature has increased dramatically, which makes very little sense, as they appear to be in the same ice shrouded hellscape that has kept both ships captive for nearly four years. And yet, it feels a few degrees above zero, rather than fifteen below. Thomas can remove his gloves without discomfort, and they both pull down their mufflers, and the wind does not sting and bite at their cheeks and noses as it always does. Thomas turns his face toward the sun, which is shining in a blue and cloudless sky. He closes his eyes and lets the chill breeze caress his face and hair and breathes deep. 

Crozier takes a moment to do the same before he looks at Thomas with surprise plain on his features. “It’s too warm for the ice to still be here,” he says, remarking on the obvious, and Thomas nods in agreement. He’s glad it’s Crozier who says it, for he feels a little as if he’s gone mad, what with the disappearance of Erebus and the bright, warm sun. They go below decks again after several minutes spent looking around them in mild confusion at the endless sea of ice. 

_________

A week passes. Then another. They walk out to the sight where Erebus had been and find nothing but clean and unbroken ice. With nothing left to look at, they return to the ship, confounded. 

They discover more unusual and unexplained things, but since they can find no good reason for the existence of such things, they have no choice but to simply accept them. It helps that all of the new discoveries without fail are positive. 

Thomas goes to the mess and is pleased to see a large stack of new tins there. These are gleaming silver, not the rusty red-brown of the cheap, half rotted tins of food they’d brought with them. They’re each labeled with a curious square of white paper that sticks to the tins as if adhered by wall paper paste or some other very effective glue. Each label is written in a clear and eloquent hand in ink. The first one Thomas picks up says ‘green beans’, and once he’s cut open the lid and had a look at the insides, he finds preserved green beans, emerald in colour and gleaming in clear water. He opens others, a delicious looking beef stew with carrots and potatoes, a tomato soup and a fourth tin, containing rich red cherries preserved in sugar syrup for he and Captain Crozier’s supper.

He and Crozier dine like kings that night and for the entirety of that week. The tins seem to contain an extensive variety of foods, and Thomas is pleased to watch Crozier’s face grow rosier with something that isn’t drink, or the chapping of a frozen wind. 

The weather grows increasingly warmer, until they no longer need coats above decks, and still the ice remains, though it’s chill breezes do not reach them. The sun stays, a bright yellow ball in an azure sky, unblinking, and sets for a few hours a night before rising again each morning.

Thomas spends a lot of time when not otherwise engaged, simply basking in the sun, leaning on the ship’s rail, his face tilted up to catch the warmth and brightness of the gleaming, impossible sunlight, enjoying being inside a body that is well fed and not suffering from aches, pains or frigid temperatures. 

_______

They both laugh more, smile more easily. It occurs to Thomas that this might be Heaven, and one evening, a little over two weeks after they’ve awoken in this strange reality, he says so.

“Do you think sir, that we died… of the cold or from scurvy, and this is Heaven?” He feels silly saying it, but Captain Crozier doesn’t laugh. He looks thoughtful, like he is seriously considering it. 

“I’d agree with you, Jopson, if not for a few things that would not support your theory. Firstly, none of the other men are here, and if this were Heaven, it would be quite a specific one to hold only you and I wouldn’t it? And while I am a faithful Captain who loves his ship, this is no one’s idea of a heavenly location in which to spend the rest of our eternity. I’d have pictured a blanket of clouds, a choir of saints singing our praises.” He winks at Thomas, and Thomas grins back at him. Neither of them have ever been much for religion.

“Thirdly,” Crozier continues, “the fact that I had a bit of the runs from eating too many of those tinned cherries last night. And I banged my elbow yesterday, on the edge of my cabin door. It still hurts this morning. I am not certain that things like the runs and banged elbows exist in heaven.”

Thomas chuckles at the Captain’s playfully rueful expression. “That’s a good deduction sir. Now that I think about it, I stubbed my toe against the top step of the ladder to the deck two days ago and it hurt something dreadful for a few moments, and now there’s a bruise. I am not certain stubbed toes are part of Heaven either. But perhaps we’re both mistaken, and Heaven is closer to the living world than we imagined?”

“Perhaps,” Crozier replies. “I’ve been taking copious notes of our situation in my journal. Should this blasted pack ever let us go, and we make our way back to England, I’d like to have a good record of these events.”

“That’s prudent sir,” Thomas chides himself for not having thought of the same thing, but his Captain is a very clever man, and he should have known he’d think to keep a record. 

“What’s for supper tonight Jopson?” Crozier asks with a warm smile. 

  
“I’ve found some fish stew and capers that I think will do very well,” Thomas says, returning his Captain’s smile with another one of his own. He adores feeding Crozier, though he doesn’t say this out loud of course. 

______

A week later and they've grown accustomed to the warmer weather and better food. Both of them have put on weight. Thomas is pleased to see Captain Crozier’s belly round in a small pooch of extra fat, pleased that his shoulders and cheeks and waist fill out from the too-slender look of quasi-starvation he remembers. 

Now when had they run out of food? He can’t seem to remember that happening, but if so, then why is a fuller, healthier Crozier such a relief to him, if they’d never been in danger of having nothing to eat? It confuses him and so he puts those thoughts aside for a time when he can find out more about their situation. His memories are foggy and hard to hold onto, and he can’t seem to recall much past the horrible Carnival where they lost so many men to the vengeful flames of Stanley’s incomprehensible self immolation.

_____

All around them, subtle changes occur. One day, Thomas is headed from the mess to the Captain’s Quarters and notes that the wood of the walls past which he walks have grown smoother and cleaner. The grain of the wood is no longer visible, and has become a uniform, clean white and mahogany brown, the surface of which feels smooth like glass. He knows not what to make of this, and so he brings the observation to his Captain. 

“I’ve noticed that as well,” responds Crozier. “I’ve no clue what it means. This world, wherever we are, it changes around us in ways it should not. The ice never thaws, and yet it must be at least ten degrees celsius by now. And I am almost certain I was in far poorer physical shape before I woke up and you came to my door that morning. Yet now, I feel ten years younger.”

Thomas nods. “I feel the same way. It is confusing indeed…” he pauses, thinking for a moment. “Sir, did we somehow run out of provisions aboard Terror? I am remembering you much thinner than you are presently.”

“And I you,” Crozier admits with a frown. When first I saw you, when you woke me a few weeks ago, I was more glad to see you than I should be. And I don’t mean that I’m not always glad to see you Jopson, that much should go without being said,” he gives Thomas a warm grin before continuing. “But it was as if you had been gone far longer, or that I’d been worried of something bad having happened to you, and I was very relieved to be proven wrong.”

Thomas nods enthusiastically. “Yes! That is exactly how I felt! I was certain that we’d been separated somehow, that perhaps something dreadful had happened to you. Seeing you open that door was a relief indeed sir.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re both hale and hearty now Jopson. And I’m glad you’re here. I can’t think of a better chap to be marooned with.”

His voice is so warm, and his eyes meet Thomas’ and hold there for a moment. Thomas’ blush wells up through his chest and into his face in a hot wave, and he looks down at his hands in his lap, unable to bear the pleasure of being praised so by his Captain. If this is not Heaven, he thinks, well then, it is something close to it.

_____

Several days later, they’re sitting together over the remains of a very good supper. Jopson has discovered a tin of fruit he does not recognize. It is green, bright green, with small black seeds at its core. It is cut into colorful medallions and preserved in the same sugar syrup as the other fruit they’ve found. Captain Crozier, a far more worldly man than he, cannot recognize it either, but he takes a bite and pronounces the fruit delicious. Somewhere between a banana and an orange, with the consistency closer to the banana side. 

Jopson, grinning at the newness of it, spears one of the emerald green discs with his fork and takes a bite. It is indeed delicious, half tart and half sweet. The small black seeds crunch pleasantly between his teeth as he chews. He swallows it down with a smile. 

His smile fades swiftly however as he feels a sudden heat suffuse his chest and throat, climbing up to his scalp to tighten the skin there. His tongue itches fiercely and his throat begins to close up, causing his breath to rasp in and out of his lungs. Crozier is immediately at his side, hand on his back, asking him urgent questions, but all Thomas can do is gasp for air and stare, wide eyed with panic at his Captain’s frightened expression. Crozier is gripping Thomas by the face and is peering into his eyes, calling his name. Thomas has a final thought that it is quite an unfair tragedy that he’ll die of poisoning after making it to this strange land of warmth and plenty. That he still has some things he might have liked to tell Crozier, before his vision goes black. 

_______

He is not dead. That much is revealed to him when he stirs and opens his eyes, coughs violently and clears a throat that’s incredibly dry. 

He can breathe, and he does so, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Crozier is still bent over him, and Thomas is lying down in the Captain’s own bed. Crozier is looking away from him though, speaking to someone else in the room, and this is very strange indeed. 

“He’s awake,” Crozier says. “God bless you, he’s awake and breathing well.”

“Excellent news Captain,” comes an unfamiliar male voice. 

Thomas raises himself onto his elbows, squinting blearily at the image of a man standing a few feet away. He’s dressed as a ship’s doctor. His surgeon’s apron is affixed by a single button to his waistcoat and he’s in shirt sleeves and simple dark trousers. He is however, a stranger, clean shaven with light brown hair. He looks friendly, and Thomas feels no apprehension upon seeing this unknown man. Only a sharp stab of curiosity. He and Crozier have been alone for weeks now aboard Terror. They haven’t seen another living soul. 

“Not to worry lad,” Crozier is sitting beside him on the bed, his hand has come to rest on Thomas’ shin, possessive and protective, and Thomas loves the feeling. The warmth of the Captain’s touch cuts a pleasant swath through his fear and confusion. 

“What happened?” He croaks, his eyes darting from the strange man’s face to Crozier’s. “Was I poisoned?” 

“Not quite.” The surgeon steps forward, looking shy and polite, his manner reassuringly similar to that of Doctor Goodsir’s. “You had what’s called an allergic reaction. This means that your body rejected certain things in the fruit you ate. Such reactions can be fatal, and I must apologize. I did not realize that tins of that particular fruit were brought on board.”

This is a statement that Thomas finds utterly confusing. He blinks and turns to look at Crozier for some sort of corroboration. 

Crozier smiles warmly at him. He’s wearing a face his steward knows well. The one that means that he’s just as confused as Thomas, but being brave so as to not upset Thomas further. “He’s right lad,”Crozier says. “He gave you an injection of some sort. A needle in your arm and that seemed to put you right. I was afraid I’d lost you there for a second.” The hand on his shin squeezes him firmly and Crozier is looking at him with a sort of fondness that thrills Thomas, despite how turned around he is. 

“And who are you sir?” he turns to look again at the strange doctor. 

“My name is Smith, and who I am is not quite so easily explained. For now, I’ll just have to say that I am here to help, and that you’re both safe and sound. No harm will befall you further. At least none that I may prevent.”

A thousand questions rush to fling themselves past Thomas’ lips, but Smith holds up both hands in a placating motion. “I must go now, but I’ll return soon with companions, and we’ll talk about what will happen next and about where you are.” 

None of this makes sense. “Was there a rescue party?” Crozier seems to shake himself out of his confused state faster than Thomas can manage. “Have you news from London? Are we rescued?”

“All will be revealed soon,” Smith says. “For the time being, all I can say is that yes, you both have most decidedly been rescued. But I cannot give you further details yet. Please be patient. As I said, you are safe and well cared for. This illness of steward Jopson’s should never have occurred, and the individual responsible will be extensively questioned. Now gentlemen, I must wish you a good day.” 

With that, he nods and exits the Captain’s quarters before either of them can move to detain him. Crozier turns to Thomas and tells him to lie still and that he’ll be back shortly and goes off in search of the strange gentleman. He returns several minutes later however with the news that the man has apparently disappeared into thin air, for he cannot be found anywhere on the ship, nor out on the expanse of white ice and snow that surrounds Terror.


	2. Chapter 2

“Kiwis, Agent Daniels? Would you care to explain this lapse in judgment?”

“I sincerely apologize Supervisor Riley. I must not have gone over the approved foods list as thoroughly as I’d thought.”

“Clearly not, as the kiwi was not introduced to Europe until the turn of the twentieth century, which makes your inclusion of it in their menu  _ fifty years _ off the mark.” There’s a long pause as Supervisor Riley maintains a steady look at Daniels, and watches as the Level Two Botanist tries valiantly not to squirm under its weight. “Luckily we had an Agent getting fitted and already in costume, or the time it took to put the damned clothing on would have cost that man his life. You understand that don’t you? That you almost cost us the life of one of our Historical Acquisitions?”

“I do sir, and all I can say is that it won’t happen again.”

“It had better not, Daniels. If you commit an error of this magnitude again, you’ll be sent home permanently. You’ll be dismissed from the project, and you’ll never work in Reclamation again. Understood?”

“Yes sir. I understand completely.”

Taking pity on Daniels, at least for the moment, Riley changes the course of the conversation. “How are the other two doing? The doctor and the Inuit woman?” 

“Well sir, Agents Ramirez and Ito say they’re acclimating nicely.” Daniels is visibly relieved by the change of subject. “The doctor seems very confused by the integration, but curious as well. He’s spent most of his time since they were woken writing about environmental changes. A very inquisitive individual. She on the other hand is surprisingly calm. I thought, being that she’s from a less technologically advanced culture, she’d be far more unsettled, but she seems generally unconcerned by the process.”

“Her people have a long history of observing the unexplained and taking it in stride, Agent Daniels. Even Crozier and his men must have seemed alien and incomprehensible to them, and yet, she managed to communicate with them quite well, all things considered.”

Daniels nods to show he understands. 

“We’ll give her a new tongue of course,” Riley says. “But that would have been far too difficult to explain away in the very beginning of the process, plus we’ll need her informed consent, so we’ll wait for now.”

“Yes sir, understood. They seem to communicate quite well regardless. They’re not married, nor do they seem to be engaging in any form of sexual intercourse, but they’re clearly very emotionally in tune. There could be a romantic connection.”

“Well,” Riley allows himself a small smile. “We could say that’s true of Crozier and Jopson as well, couldn’t we? Though I’m almost certain neither of them has mentioned this fact to the other, nineteenth century attitudes being what they were. Quite a fortuitous group we’ve picked up this time.” Couples are very useful to a project. They tend to be more easily convinced to join up, especially when they are allowed to work together (and they almost always are with few exceptions). Whats more, romantic partners (especially new ones) are able to keep one another company better than unassociated strangers or mere friends during the lengthy integration process. Riley supposes everything looks like a grand adventure when a person is newly in love, and he’s not above using that to the Agency’s advantage. 

Crozier and Jopson may only be a devoted steward and his ship’s captain, joined by years of working intimately side by side. They could be bonded by adversity and close association and nothing more. But from the vid excerpts Riley has seen, the way Jopson looks at Crozier is all too telling. Riley is more unsure of Crozier’s feelings, but that man is an enigmatic force of nature. It’s why they selected him for integration and recruitment in the first place. Men like him are usually a fantastic addition to any Reclamation Team. As for Jopson, he scored high on open mindedness and mental elasticity, and he can bring a unique perspective regarding his life as a working class man from the mid 19th century, which is something none of the other three have such extensive experience with. 

Also, regardless of the true nature of Crozier’s feelings for the younger man, it had seemed prudent to select them together. It was clear as day to those on the Recon and Observation trips that if anyone were to be selected along with Crozier, it would have to be Jopson. The two were like peas in a pod, and there are a lot of strong, positive emotional associations there, romantic or no. Crozier bonded very deeply with Fitzjames as well, but regrettably, they would never get clearance to acquire two ship’s captains. Acquisitions always hinged on variety. The Agency abhorred redundancy. 

Daniels looks relaxed by the change of subject, and Riley doesn’t want him relaxed. He wants him feeling guilty and contrite, so he quickly pulls the botanist’s attention back to the near fatal mistake. “Since you almost caused the termination of one of our Acquisitions, I’m sure you won’t mind double and triple checking all of your approved food and beverage lists against known allergies and anachronism files before you head to your quarters this evening?” It’s not a question. It’s an order, but Riley finds that his subordinates respond better when he puts them in the position to agree with him, rather than simply obey instructions. 

“No Supervisor Riley, of course. I’ll get to it right away.” 

Riley watches him leave and sends up a prayer to whatever celestial entity is still around to hear him that his second level botanist means what he says when he promises it won’t happen again. There’s a lot riding on the Franklin mission. And furthermore, he likes this new group of Acquisitions. He’s always found Franklin’s doomed Expedition a fascinating part of earth’s ancient history. And The Agency is expending a lot of resources on this project. He can’t afford to have any of them die on him.

________

Harry Goodsir wakes himself with a strangled half-shout. He stares up into Silence’s face, gasping for breath as she pets at his cheeks and regards him with coal dark eyes, tinged with worry. 

“Wha- what?” He’s frightfully confused, as he always is when waking from nightmares since coming to this strange place. He knows of course that his companion cannot answer him. Not in words, but she strokes his hair and makes small, soft grunting and humming noises to try and soothe him. And it works. It always does. His breathing slowly decreases in intensity and he falls back against the sturdy bed of furs and willow branches that they share. There’s a bed for her as well, on the other side of the fire pit at the center of the ice house, but from the very beginning, she’s come and lay down beside him each night. For this he is awed and grateful. 

He’d thought he would never see her again when they sent her off before reentering the camp that one foggy day, but in truth, that is the last coherent thought he remembers. Watching her walk off into the ghostly mists, as if walking away into a dream, his heart aching with every step she took until he could no longer see her through the haze. 

The time in between then, and when he woke, warm and comfortable inside this ice house, is a confusing swirl of half remembered images. Blood. Rock crunching beneath his booted heels. Sadness. He remembers a great sadness and a heavy weight on his soul that gets lighter and easier to bear the longer he and Silence live together in this small patch of Heaven out on the ice. 

Many things about their new home do not make any sense. The beds for one. The well constructed fire pit of rounded stones, set in a circle at the center of the house, below a smoke hole, smooth and circular that looks far too polished for human hands to have made. He asks Silence immediately if she made these things and she shakes her head. The snow house is far larger than any he’s ever heard of or seen portrayed in the Esquimaux propaganda materials back in London. It stretches a good four or five feet above their heads and is approximately the size of Sir John’s Captain’s quarters aboard Erebus. It is warm and comfortable.

Also, there is plenty of food. It is stacked in a small pantry that extends out from their main living quarters, and there is seal meat, seal blubber, fish, small, rounded cakes that look and taste to be made from some sort of grain as well as silver tins of a wide array of foods more familiar to Goodsir’s English sensibilities. He can tell that in the beginning, Silence is a little unnerved by this plentiful larder, but she nonetheless prepares meals for them, even cooking fish and seal meat over the fire with a small frown when Goodsir explains that eating raw meat is a thing that isn’t very pleasant for him. 

He wants to do the cooking himself, but she insists upon doing it for him. He hopes this is due to her fondness for him, rather than any sense of feminine obligation, but either way, he submits to her care happily. 

They do some exploring and find nothing but an endless expanse of smooth ice and snow. The sun is shining in a clear blue cloudless sky, and there is nothing for miles in all directions. It is far warmer than it should be as well. Neither of them are very motivated to journey out into the white expanse of nothing, being that they have fire (piles of wood stacked outside the ice house replenish themselves when neither of them are looking), food, shelter, and each other. If the Erebus and the Terror, or if the rest of the men are out there, Goodsir finds himself very unmotivated to find them. He has a feeling, in the pit of his stomach that they are gone. Whether the thaw finally happened, or they perished somewhere, he cannot say, but he wishes only to be here, spending all of his days with Silence, and learning about her and this strange world. In comparison, the prospect of trekking through the endless white that surrounds them quickly loses appeal.

He’s hopelessly in love with her, but he’s known that since the moment he first saw her. She is striking, with her onyx eyes and caramel skin, and near-black hair. Above and beyond her beauty, she is a fascinating mystery that draws him ever forward, looking for more and more answers. She is a book he longs to read, but whose pages are written in a cryptic code he does not yet have the key for. He at first thinks she lacks expression, or that she is overly serious, but as he grows to know her better, both before and after they were last with the men, he sees a multitude of emotions flicker across her face. She only guards her thoughts far better than any English woman he has ever met. She is sphynx-like, but he is learning to read the language of her eyes and mouth, the shapes her brows make when she feels things. 

She seems fond of him, and for that he is grateful. He would never expect her to return the feelings he holds in his heart for her. And even if she did, he knows not even where to begin courting her. Their cultures are so extremely different. In his world, one is never alone with an eligible woman without a chaperone, and yet they sleep beside one another, (chastely) every night. Many mornings he wakes with her arm wrapped around his middle, her face buried in the back of his neck. Many mornings, he wakes curled around her, his nose full of the herbal and smoke smell of her hair. 

He feels lust, but tamps it down. Resists the urge to touch her in the ways he longs to, for she hasn’t requested it, has not given her permission. It feels like enough to simply have her lie next to him every night, and he satisfies himself with this small miracle instead. 

During the days, he makes notes in his leather bound surgeon’s journal, which was there with him when he first woke in this place. Notes about the temperature, the types and amounts of food provided for them, the type of wood stacked outside the house. He catalogues everything about their new environment, including the position of the sun, at what degree it sets on the endless horizon, and marks the lack of animal life. 

He thinks perhaps they have both died and are now in some sort of very peaceful, enjoyable purgatory, until he accidentally burns his finger on one of the smooth stones of the fire pit, which causes a painful and irritating blister that lasts for three days. He doubts blisters are a thing that occur in the afterlife, but he could be mistaken. 

They work on communication together every day as well. He teaches her English, because she can no longer share her language with him. He is continually pained by her lack of speech, and he cannot fathom why she cut her tongue out. He asked her about it, what seems like ages ago, during her convalescence after the carnival. Asked her if someone else had cut out her tongue. She had only shaken her head and pointed to her own chest. 

He believes there is a connection between her self mutilation and the Tuunbaq, as her father had apparently done the same thing. She also carries carved statues of a bear and a woman, in a small pouch on her fur hood. She showed them to him one evening while they were sitting in their strange ice house, by the fire. Pointed at her mouth, then at the carving of the bear. He’d finally understood, and had felt honoured to be shown such precious, hidden items. 

At first, she had seemed very unhappy at being stuck with him. Well, not unhappy with  _ him _ exactly. She’s always seemed to like him well enough, for which he is eternally grateful. More that she feels a lot of frustration with the emptiness and barrenness of the landscape. He knows she must miss her people dreadfully, and thinks perhaps she even misses the great, horrible beast that dogged their path in the days leading up to them coming here. He asks her if she can sense the beast in this place, and she only shakes her head again and makes the sign for “dead”, two fingers drawn across her own throat, like a knife. This news surprises him, but he has no real way to ask her what happened. Not yet at any rate, and so he lets it stay a mystery.

There is a strong sense he gets from her of guilt and regret. Of blunted purpose and lost opportunities, but it fades slowly over time, until she seems to accept their situation. Calm, unflappable acceptance is a thing she excels at, and he admires her for it. 

Harry is happy in a way that makes him fear that his new life is a dream, that he’ll wake up one morning, back aboard the stinking creaking prison of Erebus, or lying in a filthy tent, on an endless expanse of rocky nothingness, waiting for illness or starvation to claim him. It takes several long weeks of nightmares and anxiety to let the pure warmth and sustenance and reliability of their new situation seep into him enough to believe it. Takes him weeks to trust that what he has is at least semi-permanent. 

Their new home is a fascinating mystery. It makes no biological, meteorological nor geographical sense. They can see nothing around their ice house. No mountains. No sea. Not even any crags and spires of ice jutting up from the pack floor. Just flat ice covered in a layer of snow, all around. And it is never cloudy. The sun shines bright for most of the day, setting briefly for a few hours before rising again. This is only partly how an arctic sun should behave, and it is curious in the extreme. What could possibly explain such massive changes in weather and in the movement of the planets themselves? Goodsir is mystified and intrigued. And this, this deep and abiding curiosity he has for the world around him, combined with his lovely yet mute living companion keep him constantly engaged in thought and research and record keeping. 

The feeling that he is in some sort of heavenly afterlife persists, despite his blistered finger. Mostly because this seems very much like his idea of what Heaven would be like. True, he would prefer to live in a comfortable house in London, or maybe a lovely cottage in the countryside, but perhaps the ice house is Silence’s version of Heaven and they are sharing their afterlife. 

Being with Silence is part of the reason he thinks he might have died. It is a thing he’s wanted, to be near her, to learn from her and teach her and watch the subtle play of changing expressions across her high lovely face. A thing he’s wanted from the moment he saw her. From the moment she looked at him with such pain in her eyes as he dug for a bullet in her dying father’s shoulder, he’s wanted to protect her, to shelter her, to learn everything he can about her. And look. Now that is exactly what is happening. He is well fed, warm, and endlessly entertained by his time spent with her and his exploration of this strange place. Yes, he wishes he could be closer to her. Wishes he could kiss her in the way he thinks almost ceaselessly of doing. He’d marry her in an instant if such a thing could be accomplished. Marry her and spend the rest of his days helping her raise a pile of rosy cheeked, half-Inuit children if that’s what she also wants. He thinks he’d make a good papa. And she is the tenderest and sweetest of women. And smart and brave as well. Braver than half the men on board either ship. 

But still, she remains aloof. Warm and caring, but hesitant toward him. He can see affection in her eyes when she looks at him, but also confusion, as if she doesn’t know quite what to do with him. 

He is patient. They have nothing but time. Time in which to explore this world, to heal from wounds he can’t see but knows are somehow hiding there, inside his heart and deep in the tissues of his muscles. His nightmares are growing less frequent as time goes on, and his body feels better than he thinks it ever has, even before the expedition set sail. 

He is patient. He loves her and they are both safe and well. He will wait and see what comes next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with the French old school spelling for Eskimo. Not sure if that was on purpose in the subtitles of the show, but it's neat. So that's that. If anyone has any info on the spelling of the words they used to refer to the Inuit, let me know! This is more for my own need to make these people happy than to do deep historical research, so please don't expect too much.


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas sits with Captain Crozier on the deck of Terror, side by side in chairs they’ve brought up from below, and watches the sun set. It’s a glorious sight, all pinks and golds and flaring orange streaks against the barren yet beautiful landscape. They are sipping at hot cups of tea and are well fed and at ease. It has been several days since Thomas’ sudden illness, but his possible death must have shaken Crozier more than he let on at the time, for he has been even more attentive and gentle with Thomas since it happened. 

Yesterday morning, when Thomas slept in a bit late, simply due to the luxury of the warmth and the satisfaction of a full belly from the previous night’s dinner, Crozier is visibly upset at his lateness. 

“Where were you?” He demands a touch sharply, when Thomas shows up at his quarters, still muzzy eyed from sleep, two hours later than he normally does. “I was this close to banging on your door!” Crozier’s eyes are bright and fierce. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, mouth pressed into a thin, disapproving line. He is dressed in his trousers, shirtsleeves and waistcoat already, and Thomas feels his cheeks burn with shame.

“Oh sir, I’m sorry sir! I slept far too late. I had no idea the sun was even up! I must have been too comfortable, Captain. I am so very sorry!” Thomas is mortified, and he immediately goes about his tasks of straightening the Captain’s cabin, putting papers in order, picking up Crozier’s nightdress where it was left, draped across his bed. His face is flushed with shame over his lapse.

“Thomas, forgive me.” 

Thomas is arrested in his actions by the sound of his name on Crozier’s lips. He rarely ever calls Thomas by his first name, and the tone of his voice, soft and a little ragged at the edges is surprising as well. Thomas turns to face him, nightdress still in hand. 

“I was sharp with you only because I was worried. You’re always so punctual, and when you didn’t arrive at your usual time, I… well… I was worried, that is all.”

“Sir,” Thomas feels his heart do a strange, fluttering dance inside his chest. “I know I have been a bit lax in my duties as your steward, what with the newness of this place and-”

“Thomas,” Crozier cuts him off mid sentence. “I think you should no longer serve as my steward.”

“Oh sir! Whatever it is that I’ve done wrong, I am certain it can be remedied-”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Thomas. Nothing at all. You’ve been exemplary in your service to me for many years now. It is only that there are just the two of us. I am a grown man with four functioning limbs. I’m not young, but I’m not a doddering old man by any stretch of the imagination. I am perfectly capable of dressing myself, making my own bed. My own meals.”

Thomas stares at him in disbelief. “But sir… whatever will I do if I am not your steward?” he asks, dumbfounded. He feels a strange sort of sadness well up inside him, and despite Crozier’s reassurances, he can’t help but feel that perhaps he has failed his Captain in his duties somehow. 

“You may do whatever it is that you wish,” Crozier replies with a shrug. “You may assist me in researching this strange world in which we find ourselves. You may sleep all day if you so desire. You may pack up your belongings and trek off onto the ice if you want to, though I fervently hope you do not.” He smiles, a little sadly, and Thomas wants more than anything to take that sadness away. “You are no longer my steward Jopson. You are officially a co-Captain of this mission. My second if you wish. There is no one here to argue with my decision to promote you. No courts. No other officers. We are adrift in a strange and wonderful land. I cannot continue to hold you to such menial tasks when I have no other men to lead or to accompany me.” 

Thomas is not certain he understands what is being said. “Your second sir?” he thinks perhaps he has imagined Crozier’s words. “Your second in command?” 

“Don’t look too flattered Jopson. There are after all, only two of us. But should we make it back to England ever again, I’ll recommend strongly that you be promoted to lefftenent at minimum. If not tell them to make you a captain yourself. You’re a smart man. Strong. Clever. Capable. You’d make an excellent captain.” 

Thomas vision goes blurry and he fights to hold back tears. “Oh sir, I could never accept such a thing.”

“And why is that Jopson?” Crozier asks with a sly, one sided grin. His eyes are sparkling and he’s clearly enjoying Thomas’ confusion in a kindly way. “You have more experience living aboard a ship and helping to manage a crew of men in the fiercest and most dangerous arctic conditions as any man I’ve met outside the admiralty. You are intelligent, disciplined and kind. You should think more highly of yourself. I certainly do.”

Unable to bear the praise while keeping his eyes on Crozier’s face, Thomas ducks his head and scrubs at his wet eyes with the back of his jacket sleeve. “Thank you sir,” he says softly, trying not to let the swell of emotion he feels show in his voice. 

“Alright then. Now that that’s settled, please do not disappear on me again Jopson. I like to know where you are at all times. Otherwise I’ll worry too much.” Crozier’s voice is stiff with discomfort. He sounds shy, which is unusual for him. “When you fell ill,” Crozier continued, “I did not know what to do. I did not know what I would have done if… “ he trails off, and stands, hands on hips, looking down at his feet in the suddenly awkward silence that’s cropped up between them. 

“I will certainly not disappear again sir,” Thomas says, unable to stop his blushing, nor hide the tremor in his voice. “You need not worry about that.”

“Excellent! Then let us go and fetch breakfast shall we?” 

_________

A week later, they are back up on deck, comparing notes on the position of the sun and their probable location, and mostly just basking in the warmth of its rays when they are suddenly made aware of the presence of a third person. They hear footsteps approaching along the deck and both men are up and out of their chairs in an instant, ready to defend themselves from whatever those footsteps bring. Out of well worn habit, Thomas steps forward a little and subtly in front of Captain Crozier. 

“Please! Do not be alarmed!” It is a woman that walks toward them, and Thomas feels his mouth fall open in shock. Her skin is caramel coloured and her thick dark hair is pulled back into a simple bun. She wears a dark blue dress of fine quality, but no bonnet and no gloves. She smiles as she steps closer. “My name is Mrs. Ramirez, and I’ve come to talk to you about why you are here.”

Neither men are capable of speech. They simply stare at her. Crozier after a moment, breaks the awed silence first. “Pardon me madam but, are you Esquimaux?” 

“Ah, you must be a bit confused by my colouring. No, I am not Inuit, which is what those people prefer to be called. My mother was from Puerto Rico and my father was from El Salvidor. But that is neither here nor there. I am an emissary from those of us who brought you here, and I will hopefully be able to shed some light on your situation. May I join you?”

Both Thomas and Captain Crozier nod numbly. Thomas cannot take his eyes off the woman. His fascination has little to do with desire. He’s never found women interesting in that capacity, a fact he has gone to great lengths to conceal. But still, this woman is quite beautiful, and the sight of her, out here where no woman should ever be, other than Lady Silence, who was so alien to the men and so comfortable in these harsh surroundings…it is astonishing. Mrs. Ramirez is clearly a lady. Her clothing is impeccably tailored, her skin, flawless, her hair very neatly arranged. She has straight, bright white teeth and spotlessly clean fingernails. After a disoriented moment or two, he realizes that she has an American accent. It’s rare from where he’s from, but he has met a few Americans in his time. 

He and Crozier both offer her their seats, and she accepts Crozier’s. Thomas insists that Crozier take his chair, and leans against the railing. 

“I must apologize that we’ve left you alone for so long,” she says first. “It was necessary in the grand scheme of things. There is a lot that I need to tell you, but I think it is important first to know that you are no longer in the Arctic. You are somewhere else. Somewhere far safer.” 

She pauses then and takes a breath, seeming to prepare for what she has to say next. “Also,” she continues, “and I am very deeply sorry to have to tell you this, but please know that with one exception, the other men of the expedition did not survive. The entirety of the crew perished from a mixture of scurvy, lead poisoning and exposure. Also of course from attacks by the Tuunbaq.” 

Crozier covers his face with his hands and slumps forward, elbows on his knees and lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Sweet Jesus,” he says, voice low and soft and muffled by his hands. 

Thomas feels sadness surge up inside him and fights back tears. He thinks he knew that the men were all gone. Something deep in the pit of his stomach had told him that their chances of survival were abysmal at best. A moment later though, something of what she’s related to them catches his awareness. “You said all but one,” he says, feeling hope flare to life inside his chest. Perhaps lieutenant Little still lived. Or Commander Fitzjames. 

“Yes,” Mrs. Ramirez tells them. “Your ship’s doctor, Harry Goodsir, he and the Inuit woman are here with us as well.”

“Goodsir?” Captain Crozier’s face comes up out of his hands with a hopeful look in his eyes. “Well, that warms my heart to hear. And Lady Silence as well? That is quite a boon!” He turns to Thomas and his smile, sad but steady lends Thomas some strength. “Where are they?” He asks urgently, turning back to the woman. “When can we see them?”

“Soon,” Mrs. Ramirez says with a reassuring warmth to her tone. “But not quite yet. They are healing and resting as well, somewhere nearby but difficult to reach.” Crozier nods reluctantly.

“The creature is also dead now,” Mrs. Ramirez states, and Thomas feels himself relax subtly from his position leaning against the ship’s rail. He’d been subconsciously fearing another attack, even though this place seemed placid and non-threatening. The creature’s death was a blessing, even in the wake of hearing about the death of the other men. “I am very sorry about your fellow seamen,” Mrs. Ramirez continues. “We could not rescue them all. It was not within our capability to do so. But that will be explained in time.” She speaks quickly and without preamble, but her tone is empathetic, full of warmth and regret. It helps to soften the blow of her swiftly delivered news of the men’s demise.

“Where is Erebus?” Crozier asks, voice still rough with grief, and Thomas leans forward curiously to hear her response.

“It is gone. Sunk beneath the waves,” Mrs. Ramirez says carefully. “And despite outward appearances, the ship in which you are living now is not Terror. That too now rests on the bottom of the ocean. This vessel is a carefully created replica.”

Crozier looks astounded and dismayed to hear this news, but rallies quickly. “I think I knew that, somewhere deep down,” he says with a grim expression on his face. “It was as if my wife had been replaced by another woman. A stranger who looks very much like her, but is nonetheless different.” He pauses for a moment, and Mrs. Ramirez stays silent, perhaps giving him space to feel what he needs to. 

“Are we prisoners here?” Crozier asks next, after a long pause.. No one has stopped them from leaving Terror, but that is largely because outside of the quick walk to check the ice where Erebus should have been, they have not ventured off the ship. There had been no reason to. They can see a hundred miles in any direction, and the land is barren and featureless. By comparison, Terror is familiar, warm, full of food and amenities. 

“No, you are not prisoners,” Mrs. Ramirez replies. “Rather you are likely incapable of survival outside these carefully guarded lands where you are now staying.” She pauses for a moment, seeming to think. “Imagine that you’ve traveled to a new city in a strange country where you do not speak the language. You have no money, no food, no idea of where you’ve ended up. Imagine the landscape is wild and full of pitfalls, and that local customs are strict and easily violated without prior experience with the people that live there, their customs and religious practices. You are staying with a friend who knows this new city well, and can guide you in your exploration of it. Without this friend’s help, you might get yourselves into some serious trouble. Is your friend imprisoning you?”

Crozier thinks this over and nods slowly. Thomas can also understand what it is she’s saying. They would not be able to navigate properly on their own in this strange place. 

“Now as to your purpose here, that is far more complicated to relate, and we cannot speak much of those details yet. It is best if you think of us as a secret society that works independently from any nation of the world to conduct scientific research. Also, you should know that many years have elapsed since Terror and Erebus were stranded in the ice. You did not feel the passage of time, for reasons I cannot yet explain, but please understand that you were not found by almost 40 rescue missions they sent after you.”

Before Thomas can even begin to comprehend the entirety of what she’s just said, she is speaking again. 

“We rescued Captain Crozier,” she nods at Crozier, “steward Jopson,” a nod in Thomas’ direction, “Doctor Goodsir and the Natsiliŋmiutaq Inuit woman...Lady Silence as you call her… specifically so that you could help us with our research. And because history records all of you as perishing in the north.” She smoothes her hands down the front of her dress and adopts a serious expression. “We cannot return you to England. To all who knew you, you are dead and gone. You died out on King William Land, and were never heard from again. Your bones were never found.”

Thomas looks swiftly at Crozier to gauge his reaction to this strange news and finds his Captain looking pensively at the woman. He appears for the moment to choose silence and to simply listen. He is a more patient man than Thomas, who feels endless questions bubbling up inside him. But he follows his Captain’s lead and keeps his mouth shut.

“I know you must both be very confused, but I must ask you to be patient,” Mrs. Ramirez continues. “In time, you will be fully informed as to the details of your situation. We’ve found however, that welcoming people into our society too quickly causes them much mental confusion. It is best to go slowly. For the time being, you will continue to live here, on board what we will call for simplicity’s sake, Terror. We encourage you to rest, eat well, become comfortable with the knowledge that you have been rescued and grieve the loss of your crew. Just know that all will be made clear in time, and that you are safe.”

Crozier is uncharacteristically silent still, and so Thomas remains so as well. The woman, taking their silence as consent to move forward, continues. “Now to the subject of your missing memories. You both might have noticed that you cannot clearly remember much past a certain point. You might remember leaving the ship to go elsewhere, or life on board the ship to a certain point, but beyond that, you’ve been given a neurological blocker that suppresses certain traumatic memories.”

Thomas is confused by her words, and his confusion must show on his face, for Mrs. Ramirez goes on to clarify. “This means essentially, that you’ve been given medicine that effectively prevented you from remembering the days and weeks leading up to your rescue. We did this to save you from trauma while you healed and recuperated on board Terror. But now that you both appear to be in very good mental and physical health, and you have grown somewhat accustomed to your surroundings, I’d like to know if you would like those memories returned to you.”

“Returned to us?” Crozier finally speaks and his voice is slow and wary. “I am still unsure how you were able to take them from us in the first place.” He sounds suspicious, but also intrigued. It is a tone Thomas has come to know well. 

“It can be difficult to explain, but we have access to very advanced technology and we were able to shield your waking minds from these memories, for the sake of your recovery. We can remove that shield, that block as it were, and let you have them back. But only if you wish it. I warn you that the memories are not pleasant ones. They are of the events that lead up to what would have been both of your deaths had we not intervened. You may be reassured however that you will not experience such things again. You are safe now. Beyond safe. And well cared for.”

Crozier seems to think on this, but Thomas speaks up immediately. “I would like to know. I want my memories back madam. If you please.” 

Crozier gives him an appraising look before nodding. “I too want to know what happened to us. It may not be pleasant as you say, but I’ve never been one to shy from the truth.”

Thomas nods in agreement. He feels a warm sense of solidarity with his Captain. The fact that neither of them will seek to avoid their lost memories, no matter how painful. It makes him feel braver than he truly believes himself to be. 

“Very well,” Mrs. Ramirez reaches into a pocket in her skirts and pulls out a small bag. Reaching inside she hands each of them a small, white capsule. “Swallow this whole, with some water, and a few minutes later, the block to your memories will be removed. We will be watching from a distance, so that we can tell if there is a problem.”

Thomas wonders what she means by ‘watching from a distance’ and what ‘a problem’ would entail, but instead asks, “Is that how you knew about my illness from eating that green fruit?” 

Mrs. Ramirez nods. “We have ways of observing you while you are inside Terror. Ways that you will not be able to detect. We are however conscious of and respectful of your privacy. You are only being observed for a small, ten minute period of time, twice daily, and never when you are in any sort of compromised position.” 

Thomas thinks back to a few nights ago when he’d succumbed to the urge to touch himself, and feels his cheeks go very hot. 

“Alright.” Crozier places the pill in the small pocket in the front of his waistcoat and stands. “I am taking you at your word madam. Trusting that you will answer our questions in time. I must thank you for your hospitality, and for the chance you’ve given us.”

Thomas rises as well and echoes his Captain’s sentiments. Mrs. Ramirez bids them a good day and walks briskly off in the direction of the bow of the ship. She is quickly out of sight behind a stack of boxes. Thomas has the distinct impression that should he or Crozier follow her, she will have disappeared, much like Doctor Smith from last week. 

“What do you think of all this sir?” Thomas asks, turning to Crozier, who is watching the space where Mrs. Ramirez disappeared. 

“I do not know what to think,” Crozier replies, his mouth turned down into a contemplative frown. “She seems friendly, and well intentioned. If she’s to be believed, she’s telling us as much of the truth as she thinks we can understand.” He turns to face Thomas, still looking pensive. “And in the end, Thomas, I think we have no choice but to believe what she says, for we have no other recourse available to us. I doubt wandering out there would do us much good.” He jerks his head over the railing at the endless expanse of ice. 

“I agree sir,” Thomas says. For a long moment, they both stand in silence. Thomas is thinking of all the friends he’s lost, and he knows Crozier must be thinking similarly. He’s lost his entire crew, with the exception of Jopson and Goodsir. The guilt and pain of that knowledge, that the three of them still live while so many do not, must weigh heavily on his Captain, for it is certainly weighing heavily upon Thomas’ soul just now. 

“When will you take your medicine Captain?” Thomas asks eventually. “I would like to do so in my own cabin, alone, if that is alright with you, sir.” He doesn’t wish Crozier to witness his fear, grief or confusion, and really, being reunited with one’s own memories feels like a very private affair.

Crozier agrees with him. “Yes this is perhaps a thing we must face alone.” He runs his fingers through his hair and takes a deep breath. “I’ll do so immediately. As soon as I reach my cabin.”

“Alright sir,” Thomas says. “Well, if you have need of me, you know where I sleep.” 

“And you as well,” Crozier replies. Thomas turns and follows his Captain below deck, feeling a twist of apprehension in his gut at what might lie in wait for him inside the chambers of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I need to note that I'm changing the history a little. Some of the men's bodies were found. But in my narrative, not Goodsir's, Crozier's or Jopson's.


	4. Chapter 4

Thomas takes the pill as soon as he is in his cabin, behind a closed door. His heart is pounding and his palms are damp. But he needs to know what happened. He lays down on his bunk and makes himself comfortable and waits. 

He does not have to wait long. A few minutes later, Images slowly come leaking to his mind, like blood in a basin of water. 

_ They are pulling the sledges, pulling pulling every day. Thomas is so tired. His gums are bleeding. His elbow and knee joints feel full of rusty nails. He is tired all the time. And yet they must keep going south. South to find game, to find rescue.  _

On his cot on board Terror, Thomas takes in a long, slow breath. He remembers now, the trek away from the ships. All the men hauling and trudging and struggling across the pack… then later across an endless barren landscape of rock, under a blanket of gray cloud. Everyone is sick, though some are sicker than others. It is as if they are walking through Hell.

_ Cornelius Hickey killed all those poor Esquimaux people. He shot them, and killed Irving and Farr and all those esquimaux men, women and even a little child... _

…

Thomas feels sick to his stomach, like he might vomit. The memory of Hickey’s narrow, pinched face, grinning at him, happy as you please. He wishes he could strangle that treacherous villain. __

...

_ The Tuunbaq attacks before they can hang Hickey. It runs through their camp, savaging men, leaving broken, bloody corpses in its wake. Terror and panic run through the camp, followed swiftly by that horrible, growling beast…. _

...

_ Little suggests leaving the sick behind and going back for them once they’ve found game or a passage out of the ice. Crozier says he’ll never do that. He’ll never leave a single man behind. No men, only things can be left to lighten the load. Thomas watches him say this and his heart soars with love for his Captain. He loves his Captain. More than he probably should...  _

...

_ Commander Fitzjames has died. He hears some of the men crying, hears Crozier talk about it in the next tent, feels his throat close up with grief. Thomas knows he will die soon too. He is strong enough to continue pulling, to keep going on. But for how long? He grows weaker every day. And if a man like Commander Fitzjames can succumb to illness… a man so strong and powerful, so full of courage and valor... If he can come apart and waste away, then what of a simple man like Thomas Jopson, who has nothing to his name but his service to his Captain and the clothes upon his back?  _

...

Thomas lets out a ragged sigh and continues letting the memories flow through him like a macabre parade of ghosts. He can withstand this. He must. He is only reassured in a small way that Crozier must be going through something similar, though it is a cold comfort indeed. Knowing that his misery has company. 

...

_ Soon he is too sick to pull. Too sick to walk. The pain is constant. A sharp stabbing in all his joints. An ache under each tooth. He bleeds from his scalp and his nose, and is covered with bruises that bloom beneath his skin without provocation. The pain is never ending.  _

_ The only time it eases is when Crozier visits him that night. He gazes down at Thomas with eyes so kind and soft, and tells him that silly story of when he tried to ride a cow as a boy. He dips a cloth in water and uses it to wipe away the sweat and blood on Thomas’ neck and chest and even wipes away his tears. Thomas is afraid that he is gazing up at his Captain with eyes that show too much… too much love. Too much devotion. He thinks distantly that Crozier will guess at his secret. But this is the end of his life after all. What has he to lose? He almost says how he feels, almost confesses at last, but then a fit of coughing overcomes him. Crozier strokes his hair, wipes away the blood and spittle that flecks his chin and sits with him until he falls asleep.  _

…

Thomas feels tears well up in his eyes and spill over to slide down the sides of his face and into his pillow. The pain can no longer be felt by him, but the memory of how it tormented him is bad enough. The memory of Crozier’s kindness, his gentleness, the tender touch he uses to dab at Thomas’ brow, is a balm to the memory of the pain. It allows him to face his next spill of images with more bravery. 

...

_ He lies in bed, waiting for death to take him. The camp had been full of bustle and noise, but now it is eerily quiet. It is then that he hears that horrible sound. The sound of the sledge boat being pulled across rock. He rolls out of his bed, every movement like being pierced by shards of glass, and crawls to the opening of the tent. He looks out and sees the men, all the men, walking away. They have the sledge packed and are hauling it away.  _

_ He sees small piles of tinned food left in front of the tents, tents that surely contain other men too sick to travel. Forgotten men. Men left to die alone.  _

_ But… Captain Crozier had told him he’d never leave the sick and dying behind. He’d promised… he’d  _ promised _. _

On his cot on Terror, Thomas is sobbing. Great, racking sobs coming up and out of him as his heart breaks in two. His Captain left him… left him behind. 

_ He crawls from the tent, half mad with pain, reaching for Crozier, calling “Captain! Captain!” But Crozier can’t hear him. He thinks he can see his Captain, at the head of the men, leading the sledge away from the camp that has now become his tomb. No, no, he is mistaken. Now he sees Crozier at the end of a long table, set with sumptuous food. He is crawling along the table, knocking dishes out of his way to get to Crozier. He is emaciated, starving, and yet he impatiently swipes plates of cornish hens, parfaits and piles of fruit filled crepes off the table with great sweeps of his arms as he crawls toward his Captain. Crozier does not seem to notice him. “Captain! Captain! Please!” He is begging now, feeling his strength seep out of him as he drags himself closer and closer to where Captain Crozier sits. Crozier is in his full dress uniform, casually talking to someone just out of Thomas’ line of sight. Why doesn’t Crozier see him? Why doesn’t he look at Thomas? Why has he been forsaken? _

Thomas has curled on his side, pulled his knees up to his chest as sob after sob wells up and out of him, as if he is being pulled apart from the inside by waves of grief. Tears, wet and hot are spilling down his nose and cheeks and further wetting the pillow beneath his head. How could he have ever forgotten such a thing? How could Crozier have abandoned him? Hadn’t he promised never to leave any man behind? Especially Thomas. His devoted companion. Thomas who lives only to serve his beloved Captain.  _ Why? _ It makes no sense. And yet he cannot help the knife edge of grief that slices through him at the memory of being left to die. “No, Captain, no,” he moans. 

There is a loud knock on the door. “Jopson!” Crozier’s voice has an edge of panic to it. “Jopson! Let me in! Please let me in!” 

Thomas rolls out of bed and staggers to the door, he pulls it open and sees Crozier’s pale, tearstained face in the yellow light of a lantern he holds in one hand. He pushes Thomas into the room and swiftly puts the lantern down before taking Thomas by the shoulders. “Thomas,” he says, low and rough, staring intently into Thomas’ eyes. “You were calling out my name. Tell me what you’ve seen! Tell me what’s happened!”

Thomas is beyond speech. He knows he must look a fright, face red and wet, expression twisted into a rictus of pain. He tries to pull away from Crozier’s hands on his arms and whimpers “no, no, I can’t..” but Crozier holds him steady, shakes him a little. 

“Please Thomas. What did you see? You were calling for me. You sounded as if you were dying.” His grip on Thomas’ arms tightens.

“I was!” yells Thomas. He spits it like an accusation into Crozier’s face, and he cannot help the rage that flares up beneath the sadness. “I  _ was _ dying sir! I was lying in that tent, dying and I watched you… I saw you… I… I…”

“What is it?” Crozier looks desperate to understand, and Thomas feels his heart begin to break all over. Could it be that he didn’t even realize what he’d done? Could he have coldly left Thomas to die without the smallest pang of guilt over it? He feels as if his world is falling apart around him. Like the earth is shifting beneath his feet.

“I saw you leading the men away!” he cries, through a fresh spate of sobs. “I saw you leaving me! You  _ left me _ !” He knows he should not be yelling at Crozier. It is a horrible breach of etiquette, to yell at one’s Captain, to accuse one’s Captain of wrongdoing. An act akin to mutiny, but he cannot help himself. His heart is a sopping, tattered lump inside his chest. His stomach is in knots. His one belief, that Crozier cares for him. That Crozier wants the best for him. That Crozier would live up to his promise and never abandon any of them to die alone… it was all a lie.

“Thomas!” Crozier shakes Thomas again, knocking him momentarily out of his dark thoughts. He lets go of Thomas’ shoulders and instead grips him by the face, pulls him close and stares intently into his eyes. He is crying too, Thomas realizes belatedly, tears leaking down his cheeks. He looks as if he is in anguish. “Thomas Jopson, I did  _ not _ leave you. I would never,  _ ever  _ leave you. You must believe me! I was kidnapped by Hickey and his blasted gang of mutineers. I told the other men to travel south without me, but I never once instructed them to leave the sick and dying behind. Please Thomas! Please believe me!”

Thomas gapes at him, gasping and confused, not knowing what to trust. The memories of his own mind, or his Captain’s word. He wants so badly to believe. 

“Dear God, Thomas, I would never leave you,” Crozier says it, whispers it fiercely. “Never, not ever. I would die first.”

Thomas’ knees go weak and he sits down heavily on his bed. The Captain follows him down, kneels on the floor before him, still looking beseechingly into Thomas’ eyes, keeping Thomas’ face clasped between his warm, calloused hands. He brings their foreheads to rest together and stares into Thomas’ eyes, up through lashes wet with tears. “I would die before I abandoned you, Thomas. I would never have done such a thing.” As he says it, his voice cracks and breaks and he collapses. He puts his head into Thomass’ lap, wraps his arms around his’ waist and lets out a long, hitching sigh. 

Thomas does not know what to make of this. He feels he must believe Crozier, feels the first tentative flair of hope. Crozier is holding him tightly around the middle and shaking, trembling with the strength of his fervency, cheek pressed to the tops of Thomas’ thighs. His tears are wetting the material of Thomas’ trousers. “I would never leave you,” Crozier says again. “I would never leave you, Thomas, not ever. Not like that. I would die first.” His voice is muffled and hoarse and full of desperation.

Thomas’ brings his hands up to rest them gently on Crozier’s soft hair. He lets his fingers bury themselves in the silky, strawberry blond and silver strands and takes a deep, shuddering breath in, lets it out in a great, cleansing gust through his mouth. “I...I am sorry sir. I did not mean to upset you so.” Logic is starting to break its way through his grief, and the reality of the situation, that his Captain is on his knees, clinging to Thomas and begging him to believe him, is breaking him out of his anguished memories. His Captain has done a clever thing by collapsing against Thomas. It puts Thomas in the role he lives to play. That of a comforter, a giver of aid and support. He must now comfort Crozier, and that brings his mind to bear on the reality of the situation. The spectors of fear and sadness are being burned away by the sunshine of Crozier’s devotion to him, and the urge to ease Crozier’s grief. “Sir, please don’t cry,” he says, tenderly stroking Crozier’s hair. “I can see now. I can see the truth. You didn’t leave me, did you sir.”

Crozier sits up, releasing Thomas’ waist to support himself with hands on Thomas’ knees, and looks at him with eyes fierce and shining. “I did not. Dear God Thomas, I would never. I hope you can believe that now.” 

There is a pleading note to his voice, and Thomas feels a stab of guilt for having made him worry so… it is just that… it had all seemed  _ so real _ . He takes in another shaky breath. “I do sir. I do believe you. I am so sorry. It is only that I must have been half mad with pain and lead poisoning. I thought.. I thought…” 

“I hate whatever it is that you thought you saw,” Crozier says vehemently. “I cannot bear to think that you went toward your death believing that I’d abandoned you. Jopson, I-” he cuts himself short, visibly changes course with what he wants to say. “You mean very much to me Jopson. All the men do, but you in particular, you are very important to me. I hope you know that.” 

“Thank you sir,” Thomas says softly. “You mean a lot to me as well.” This of course is a blatant understatement, but what else is he to say at a time like this? He attempts a weak, watery smile, and Crozier returns it with one of his own. He uses Thomas’ knee to help himself rise from the floor with a grunt of effort and sits on the bed next to Thomas. He puts his arm around Thomas’ shoulders and gives him a squeeze. “We have both had quite a fright,” he says. “I saw many things I wish I had not before I came to your quarters, after taking that pill. I think perhaps now is not the time to discuss such things.”

Thomas tells him he understands. He hangs his head, exhausted. The Captain’s body next to his is warm and feels so good. The strong arm wrapped around his shoulders, making him feel safe and protected and cared for like Crozier always does. He turns his head to look at Crozier and finds him looking back, his eyes sad and equally tired. “I think I will go to bed now sir,” Thomas says. “I am worn out.”

“As am I, Jopson. Do you wish me to stay awhile?” There’s something in his eyes as he says this, a tenderness and a shadow of regret that almost makes Thomas take him up on the offer, but he is well and truly worn out. Too tired even to spend more time with Crozier.

Thomas smiles softly and shakes his head. “No sir. You are kind to offer, but you must get your rest as well. We can speak more tomorrow.” He scrubs at his tearstained face with the back of his hand, sniffles and takes in another deep, hitching breath, feeling it sweep away even more of his pain and grief.

“Yes, we can, and we shall. Good night Jopson.” But instead of getting up to leave, Crozier surprises him by enfolding him in a fierce embrace. He turns sideways and wraps his arms around Thomas and holds him tight. Thomas lets out a surprised grunt, before wrapping his arms around his Captain and squeezing back. 

“I would never leave you,” Crozier says it one final time, his voice muffled by Thomsas’ hair, before pressing a kiss to the side of Thomas’ face. He then rises swiftly and leaves the room without looking back. Leaves Thomas stunned and wrung out, but also feeling a stirring of hope.  _ His Captain loves him. _ He would not have left him to die alone. He feels the belief in this fact take root and grow stronger with every passing second, and it brings with it a wave of relief so profound that he finds he can no longer keep himself upright. 

Without even taking the time to remove his clothing, he crawls under the covers and falls immediately into a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

“Jesus, that was rough,” Agent Ramirez goes to run her fingers through her hair, before remembering she’s wearing a wig, and dropping them to the console desk again. “Talk about catharsis.” 

“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Agent Ito stands at Ramirez’s elbow, peering at one of the large visual monitors in the Observation Room. It’s a split-screen, one side showing Crozier’s rooms, the other Jopson’s. “Those two had some serious interpersonal trauma to work out.”

“I doubt they're done with it,” Ramirez replies. “The poor guy watched the love of his life walk off and leave him to die. At least, he _thought_ he did. It’s enough to do anyone’s head in.”

“I think they’ll make it through,” Ito says. She wanders over to the chair at her research station and sinks into it as Ramirez shuts off the observation monitor. She hadn’t lied to the men on board Terror. She and the other agents are only ever allowed two ten minute sessions of visual and auditory observation a day. Never during times when the Acquisitions use the toilet, or times when they’re getting dressed, might have sex, masturbate etc. Basically, no embarrassing stuff. Just them cooking, eating, talking, walking around on deck, interacting socially. It’s done for observational purposes, to watch how they behave in a (mostly) natural environment, but also as a way to keep tabs on their mental state and get to know their body language and non verbal cues. 

Their vitals are monitored constantly. This way, hiccups or large scale physical and emotional events can be tracked, monitored and studied if need be.

A moment like this one, while it might be embarrassing to know they’d been watched, it still counts as a ‘Crisis Level Event’ and must be observed. Both of their vital signs had gone off the charts, and the alarm had sounded in Ramirez and Ito’s comm units, and now here they were. 

“I hope so,” Ramirez responds, and she genuinely does. She likes Thomas Jopson very much. He’s so earnest, so kind, and his devotion to his Captain is the stuff of fairy tale romance. Add to that the fact that the man looks like a prince from one of those ancient, 20th century Disney vids, with his raven dark hair and ice blue eyes and pale skin. Always with his heart on his sleeve. She might be developing a little crush actually. 

Crozier on the other hand is more of a closed book. An old school masculine archetype. Silently assessing everything, taking decisive action. Seeing him on his knees, begging Jopson to believe him just now though… It's shown her a deeply emotional side to the enigmatic Captain of the Terror, and that is fascinating to a Level One Psychologist, Level Two Sociologist such as herself. 

She wonders, for perhaps the tenth time since the Acquisitions were brought to the station, if Crozier realizes how deeply in love with him his steward really is. How the younger man’s vital signs light up like a New Year’s celebration whenever the man walks into a room. 

She hopes that fact doesn’t backfire, doesn’t kick off some sort of confrontation of angry homophobia that destroys the solid connection these two men have. It is always optimal with paired Acquisitions for them to enjoy one another’s company and work well together. But, despite Crozier’s grizzled, authoritarian exterior, his vitals spike when he sees Jopson as well. Just not in the bells and whistles fireworks way that Jopson’s do. Ramirez senses a deep well of loving devotion within Crozier toward his men, and especially toward Jopson. There’s a lot of kindness there, and she hopes these two work out well in the end. 

She pulls her chair over to a monitor and begins tapping her findings into the screen, points of light flashing beneath her swiftly moving fingertips. The quicker she enters her observation notes into the log, the quicker she can get out of these stiff, multi-layered skirts and take off this damn, itchy wig. Behind her, she can hear Agent Ito roll her chair over to the monitor against the wall to her left and begin to do the same. 

There’s a lot of intense emotional interplay going on aboard Terror. Not to mention between the Inuit woman and Harry Goodsir. Lots of delicate things hanging in the balance. Hopefully none of them topples over and sets fire to the whole situation. The Agency needs these people to integrate well. There’s so very much to be learned. About their social practices. Their crude yet fascinating medical procedures. The corpse of the Tuunbaq has already led to thousands of unanswered questions, and may yet yield significant and unheard of scientific findings. Agent Ramirez continues tapping away at the monitor, cataloguing psychological data, creating a profile to refer to later during more advanced stages of integration. God, this job can be difficult sometimes, but she wouldn’t want to do anything else. 

_______  
  


Francis Crozier makes it back to his room and sits heavily on his bed with a deep sigh. He runs his hands through his hair and suppresses the strong urge he feels to have a drink. He won’t of course. Not that there’s any alcohol on board (he’s checked. Old habits die hard). But even if there was, he wouldn’t touch the stuff, because that gut-rot is behind him now. He’s beaten it, and he’ll be damned if he’ll go through the living hell of getting himself off it a second time. 

The first time he’d felt like a loose collection of driftwood, held together by strings of pain. He’d sicked up, shat himself, sweated for days on end. And through it all, Jopson had been there, changing his bed sheets, placing a cold, damp cloth to his forehead. Washing out the basin from his vomit and helping him to the seat of ease when he could make it there… cleaning up after him when he couldn’t. It had been humiliating to be seen in that state. Humiliating and humbling. And somehow, Jopson had supported him through it all. Tirelessly. Without complaint. And apparently, he’d come through it without losing one iota of respect for his Captain. 

Crozier is in awe of Jopson’s patience and his kindness. He was in awe of it before he purposefully let himself get ill, let himself be cared for like a baby for weeks. And now, some interminable time later, his feelings have changed, from awe and fondness to something else. Something harder to define. 

He can still remember the other officers, looking at him with varying degrees of surprise, confusion and disgust when he tells them he’ll be sick.. Tells them to take his gun away. To not give him another drop, even if he begs. 

And then Jopson, calm and sure as you please, his eyes trained steadily on Crozier’s.

_You needn’t worry for a thing, sir_

No one but Jopson had known what to say, but his steward was there, offering his aid and support without a moment’s hesitation. Crozier had asked, and Jopson had provided. And not begrudgingly either. _Eagerly_.

He’s never in his life felt that sort of endless, steadfast devotion from another human being. Certainly not from his parents, from his violent, gin soaked father or his nervous wreck of a mother. And especially not from the woman he’d fancied himself in love with. 

This devotion of Thomas Jopson’s, it is a thing he dare not take for granted. Jopson’s presence in his life is a precious gift, to be held close and guarded. A gift few have ever given him. He’s had men dedicate their lives to his service before, but never their hearts. Never the entirety of themselves like Thomas Jopson has. It is deeply humbling. 

And then to see Jopson’s eyes, those ice blue, unearthly, beautiful eyes, filled to the brim with absolute anguish over a perceived betrayal. To see Jopson’s tearstained face, contorted in agony over believing that his Captain would abandon him in his final moments... Francis had been certain his heart would break. He’d have done anything in that moment to convince Jopson that he hadn’t left him to die alone. _Anything_. It is in his abject desperation to convince Jopson of his loyalty, while he is on his knees, begging to be believed, that he is forced to finally face the fact that his feelings have changed. That they’ve deepened and broadened from the affection of a Captain for one of his men, or even the warmth of friendship, to something far softer and sweeter, far more profound. 

He knows not what to do about this. There’s nothing he _can_ do really. He cannot take advantage of, cannot press his steward… or rather, _not_ his steward any longer, but still, a junior officer and a man twenty years younger than himself. He cannot assume that the love he sees in Jopson’s eyes for him is anything more than professional admiration from one who never had a solid father in his life. And how humiliating, to reach out, to ask, only to be rejected as a lecherous old man. Francis shivers at the thought. Sophia had rejected him twice before the expedition had set sail. His heart is too tender to risk that sort of pain again so soon.

No, he mustn’t let Jopson know about these feelings. It won’t be easy, but he’s had practice. As a man who enjoys the intimate company of both men and women, he’s suppressed feelings very much like these before, many times. Especially where men are concerned, when he’d have faced a harsh punishment for making those desires known. His trysts with men have always been secretive. Hurried, half-dressed liaisons in back alleys and brothels. Often for money, for the prospect of developing a fond regard and then finding time and privacy to explore with a man who isn’t a prostitute is a great effort and a great risk indeed. 

Jopson though is a different matter entirely. He’s kind and good and lovely. Fierce and sharp when he needs to be, full of gentle humour and steadfast resolve. He has dedicated the majority of the last several years of his life to serving and protecting Francis. And he’s so very beautiful. It is sometimes difficult to concentrate when Thomas Jopson is standing near him. That handsome face. It is a wonder that he never developed any sort of vanity, going through life with a face like that. Those pale blue eyes, like a cloudless sky on an early spring morning. That jet black hair and skin like snow, warmed by a sunset blush. 

Francis scolds himself for how pathetically poetic he’s being regarding his steward. He realizes that his feelings might be stronger, or might have begun earlier than he’d originally thought. 

Jopson had kept Francis entertained through his long illness with stories of his life growing up poor. Of hunting for game to feed the family. Learning to shoot a squirrel on the run, or a turtle dove in flight. Tales of young Jopson’s exploits as a street ruffian and a stubborn lad who loathed church and had a penchant for practical jokes. Francis can’t help but smile at the memories of Jopson’s earnest face, recounting wild stories from his early life, trying to distract Francis from the pain. 

And the tale of how he’d cared for his mother during her laudanum sickness. The sight of his steward’s shy smile, hiding what must be a deep and well worn anguish. Francis had felt his heart go out to Jopson. Apparently, his heart had kept on in it’s trajectory, for it now swelled painfully inside his chest whenever he thought of Jopsons’ lovely face. 

Francis must maintain a professional distance from his one time steward. He must hold strong to the boundaries he knows are put in place for good reasons. It will be difficult, but he will accomplish it. He can’t abuse his position of power. And for all he knows, Jopson’s adoration has nothing of the romantic or carnal about it. 

And they both need time to heal from the knowledge that the men are gone, that they are alone. Just the thought of it brings up a surge of grief that takes Francis’ breath away. He readies himself for bed and eventually, after much tossing and turning, drifts into a fitful sleep, a sleep haunted by the ghosts of men he could not save, haunted by Jopson’s ice blue eyes looking at him as if his heart were breaking.


	6. Chapter 6

Thomas opens his eyes and squints blearily into the predawn darkness. It’s early, which is good. He wants to get up and dressed and prepare breakfast for himself and Captain Crozier. Crozier offered to let Thomas take any quarters he wishes aboard this version of Terror, but he is content to stay in his own cabin. 

It’s been two weeks since they’d been given their memories back and with every day that goes by, Thomas feels the pain and grief of his misremembered final moments slipping away. Crozier’s panicked insistence that he’d never leave Thomas went a long way to helping him believe the truth. That Crozier is just as devoted to him as he is to his Captain. 

He can’t lie to himself any longer. Devotion is a clean word. It is a thing that’s always been expected of him. But what he feels goes beyond that. Beyond helping the Captain dress. Beyond fetching his meals and seeing to his particulars. He is hopelessly in love with Crozier, and that fact is getting harder and harder to hide. Especially now that they are in essence stranded alone together, well fed, well rested and happy to the degree that both of their consciences will allow. His heart races at the sound of Crozier’s voice, and his stomach is full of butterflies whenever he sees his Captain. 

It does not help matters that Captain Crozier is a good looking man. His rugged, lined face at first appears stern, but when Thomas manages to make him smile… well then, he is blessed with that gleeful, boyish grin that can light up a room. The Captain is stocky, barrel chested with muscular arms and thick shoulders. A tank of a man with charming, Irish lilt to his voice. He is quite handsome all told. At least Thomas has always thought so. He is fair and freckled, with reddish-blond hair, soft as silk. Said hair is currently flopping into his sparkling blue eyes as it’s now grown a bit too long.

Thomas will insist that he be allowed to cut Crozier’s hair today, as he’s gone far too long without a trim. He knows just how to gently scold his Captain into agreeing to being fussed over. A well placed comment about how he can’t let their strange hosts see Crozier looking anything but his best should do the trick. An added remark about them both being emissaries of the Royal Navy should seal the deal if Crozier balks. 

Thomas washes and dresses with care, having grown accustomed to the freshly laundered clothing that shows up miraculously in his small clothes cabinet overnight. The basin of heated water that’s there every morning is also a pleasant surprise that he’s grown used to all too easily. He is cleaner and better quaffed than he has been for years, and Crozier too is looking polished and fresh, and regrettably, even more handsome. 

Once he’s dressed, Thomas heads to the galley to make them both breakfast. Today, there are fresh eggs in a basket, placed on the counter near the tins of food, and this is another thing Thomas has stopped being surprised by. Fresh foods had started showing up after their meeting with the mysterious Mrs. Ramirez. Ham and eggs, roast beef and potatoes. The tins are still there, but now they are supplemented with lemons, oranges, fresh carrots and snap peas. Thomas has become something of an accomplished cook. He’d learned to cook in order to feed his little brother after his mother’s descent into laudanum madness, and those basic skills have done him well now on board Terror. 

Captain Crozier has grumbled a few times about Thomas continuing to cook for them both, saying “I am fully capable of cooking for myself.” with a frown. 

Thomas reminds him that he has more cooking experience, and jokes that Crozier will probably make a mess of things. Which causes Crozier to grin and punch Thomas playfully on the arm. After a couple of half-hearted tries to pitch in, Captain Crozier gives in and lets Thomas do the cooking. He’s put up a fight and been voted down, and now seems to enjoy getting meals from Thomas, which are brought to his room on a tray. By unspoken agreement, they eat all of their meals together. These are the best times of the day. Eating delicious food, far more fresh and varied than before their rescue, and talking amiably with Crozier. Often, they linger over fresh, hot cups of coffee or tea and chat for hours, for there is precious little else to do. 

Thomas hears about Crozier’s past. His younger days as a ship’s boy, learning the ins and outs of sailing. His childhood. His difficult relationship with his perpetually drunk and violent father. Thomas tells him more of his own life and past, and Crozier listens intently and asks him pertinent questions. It makes Thomas feel heard in a deep way. As if they are friends, comrades. 

And he supposes that they  _ are _ friends now. Crozier flat out refuses to let Thomas help him dress or shave any longer. He also fetches his own tea, his own foods outside of the meals they eat together. This makes Thomas acutely uncomfortable, but he relents, glad that he can still serve his Captain in some small capacity. 

This morning, after a pleasant breakfast of fried eggs and toast, Thomas broaches the subject of cutting Crozier’s hair. He’s brought a pair of hair scissors with him, in case Crozier agrees, so he can do it immediately. 

“I can cut my own hair Thomas. I’m not an invalid. I thought we’d discussed this business of you not continuing to serve me, now that there is no need.”   
  
“Yes sir, but in all honesty, I do not trust you to do a very good job of it,” Thomas smiles a small mischievous smile, and watches Crozier frown at him. 

“Is that so?” the Captain asks, his voice adopting a playful tone that turns Thomas’ smile full blown. 

“Sorry to say sir. If you’ve not cut your own hair, it will turn out atrocious. Especially in the back. It’s quite hard to reach the back of one’s own head.”

“But Jopson, your hair always looks neat and clean. Are you not cutting your own hair?”

“Yes sir, but I have had a lot of practice, and you have had very little.” 

Crozier smiles, and the sight of it makes heat pool pleasantly in Thomas’ chest. 

Captain Crozier, still in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, allows himself to be sat in a chair and swaddled in a spare tablecloth. Jopson has cut his hair many times and is now rather adept at it, though this is the first time since their rescue. He cuts the Captain’s fringe first, cutting off an inch or too of longish hair, with careful snips of the scissors so that it rests smartly, parted to the side and does not fall into his eyes. He then cleans up the sides with careful motions of his fingers, using a comb to smooth the hair down between cuts, pinching and snipping until the hair has been neatly trimmed around each of the Captain’s ears. He notes that Crozier’s ears have gone quite pink. He is blushing. This is unusual, but Jopson thinks perhaps it is because Thomas insists on serving him this way, even while he now takes care of his own needs in all other matters, outside of the cooking of food. 

He moves to the back, to cut the hair around Crozier’s nape and shorten it in layers up to the crown of his head. He makes precise cuts until he thinks the job is done. He removes the table cloth and carefully folds it inward, so as not to get hair clippings all over the Captain’s floor. He uses a clean handkerchief he’s brought with him to swipe at Crozier’s neck and shoulders to sweep away stray hairs, and then pauses to look at his work. 

The Captain’s hair is so silky soft. Thomas longs to run his fingers through it, and somehow, he convinces himself that doing so will help him see the natural fall of Crozier’s hair. To see if he needs to cut more, or if it is even or not. Before he can stop himself, he drives his fingers into the hair at the back of Crozier’s head and strokes them upward in a slow sweep. 

He’s surprised at how Crozier’s head falls back into the palm of Thomas’ hand, how he gasps and a helpless moan escapes his lips. It’s a sound of blatant desire, unable to be excused as anything but lust, and Thomas feels a sudden, sharp tug of heat at the core of him. He feels his skin tingle with want. He pauses for a moment, heart pounding, fingers still buried in the hair at the back of Captain Crozier’s head, before he boldly dares to add his second hand. He sweeps up with the same motion, dragging his fingertips along Crozier’s scalp, then clenches soft fistfuls of the Captain’s hair with both hands. Crozier moans again, whispers “ _ Jesus _ ,” his voice soft and deep, his head lolling helplessly back into Thomas’ hands. 

Crozier’s instant response to his touch has Thomas hot and tingling, has his breath coming fast. He feels logic and reason flee from his mind as he steps closer and looks down at Crozier’s slightly upturned face. The man’s eyes are closed and his mouth has fallen open and he’s panting softly. He is the picture of flushed arousal. A blush pinking it’s way across his freckled cheeks, his chest rising and falling swiftly. 

Crozier reaches up and grasps Thomas’ wrist, pulls his hand forward, turns his head and presses his lips to Thomas’ palm. That hot, soft press against his sensitive skin has Thomas’ knees threatening to buckle. “ _ Captain _ .” It comes out as a hot whisper, while his mind is flooding with images of what might transpire in the next few moments. Will Crozier rise and embrace him, pressing their mouths together in a long awaited kiss? Will Crozier pull Thomas down into his lap? 

Neither thing occurs however. Instead, that single word,  _ ‘Captain’ _ , seems to somehow break the spell that was cast by Thomas’ intimate touch of Crozier’s hair. Crozier stiffens, then releases Thomas’ hand. Gently, but inexorably, he pulls away from Thomas, pulls out of his grasp, and stands. He walks over to his table and leans forward, supporting himself on his palms, sides heaving gently with elevated breaths. He’s facing away from Thomas, as if he cannot look at him. He takes a long breath in, then lets it out in a resigned sounding sigh. “I think Jopson that you should go now,” he says. 

Thomas feels the rejection like a slap to the face. His Captain wants him to leave? Immediately after this moment of intense intimacy. He’d been certain that Crozier had felt the heat building swiftly between them. That he’d felt it and enjoyed it. Perhaps though, he had not, and the blush, the sounds he’d made had somehow been for some imagined lover, left behind in London? A sweetheart he was now missing? 

Without speaking, he flees the room. Instead of going to his own quarters, he heads to the ladder leading to the deck. He needs fresh air. He needs to move. He’s been in close association with a man he hungers for for too long. Perhaps a few swift laps around the deck of the ship will calm his nerves, make his spinning mind settle. 


	7. Chapter 7

Crozier does not desire him back, and that knowledge is bitterly, wrenchingly disappointing. He may have responded to Thomas’ touch, moaning, sighing, leaning into Thomas’ hands, but it was obviously not Thomas that Crozier was thinking of. That much was made clear when he was asked to leave, rather than enfolded and kissed as he so wanted to be. 

He feels tears threaten, and fights them back, clears his throat and goes about marching around the perimeter of the deck, looking out at the frozen, eerily warm landscape, gritting his teeth in frustration. 

“Thomas.” The sound of Crozier’s voice makes him stop in his tracks. It is soft, and hesitant. Thomas stops and turns, only to find that he and Crozier are not alone. Mrs. Ramirez is back, and she has the doctor, Smith, with her as well. 

Thomas walks over to them, greeting the two new people with polite nods, avoiding his Captain’s eyes. He is glad of the interruption. He cannot face Crozier’s pity, and he is longing for something to distract him from his shame and disappointment. Shame over touching his Captain in a manner unbefitting of a man of his rank. Disappointment that that touch was not wanted. He feels Crozier’s eyes on him, but stubbornly keeps his own eyes trained on the other two individuals. 

Smith speaks up first. “We’ve come to take you to meet with Doctor Goodsir and Lady Silence,” he says, and Thomas feels a swell of hope burst to life inside him. He cannot help but smile at the thought of seeing Goodsir again. The man is so kind and thoughtful. And Lady Silence as well. While Thomas has had little interaction with her, she always struck him as fiercely intelligent, independent and mysterious. He felt badly for what happened with her father, and the role many on board the two ships played in the path her life took after they met. Perhaps he may be able to befriend her, now that they are reunited in this alien place.

Crozier is smiling too, and their eyes finally meet, though Thomas looks away swiftly, back at Mrs. Ramirez, who is speaking again. 

“There is a dog sled below that will take us to their location. They’ve been alerted to our visit, and Goodsir is impatient to see and speak to you both.” Mrs. Ramirez does not mention Lady Silence being excited for their arrival, but Thomas had assumed she would be ambivalent at best. She owed them nothing, and they had caused her much pain and anguish.

Thomas nods to show that he understands, and then the four of them proceed to the ramp of packed snow that leads from the ship down to the icy expanse below. 

There is indeed a large, four seated sled below. Six dogs, in teams of two, shaggy and panting out clouds of foggy air from their muzzles, sit, harnessed patiently in front of it. It is strange to see these familiar animals, huskies by the look of them, out here in this strange no-man’s land. It’s a reassuring sight. It also seems far too large and heavy a sled to be pulled by only six smallish dogs, but once Crozier and Thomas are seated in the back two seats, comfortably cushioned and upholstered in what looks like black leather, and Ramirez and Smith are seated in the front two, the dogs take off at a swift clip, and the sled moves easily over the ice. 

The seats are set close together, and Thomas has to hold himself quite still to keep he and Crozier’s legs or knees from touching. He looks out of the side of the sled at the barren, white landscape rushing by and not at Crozier. Neither of them speak to each other. Thomas hates this tension, but he does not know what else to do. He is still hurting inside from being rejected, and does not want Crozier to see that hurt, reflected in his eyes or showing in his mannerisms.

He’s grateful for this excursion, the chill, yet not unpleasant wind ruffling through his hair, the chance to go somewhere different. He’s long since abandoned asking questions of their hosts. They’ve been told to be patient, and he will wait, along with Crozier, to discover their ultimate purpose here. 

The prospect of seeing Goodsir and the Inuit woman again is exciting. It causes a flaring spark of joy to leap to life inside him. He misses Goodsir’s kindly face and soft voice. He was always very supportive to the men, and the knowledge that he still lives makes Thomas happy.

Also, if the way Goodsir looked at Lady Silence was any indication, the man would likely be overjoyed that she was selected for rescue as well. He wonders idly if the unassuming doctor has managed to work his way under all those thick, fur garments she wears, then chides himself for thinking something so crass. Silence is a formidable force. Not a blushing bride. She’d be likely to take Goodsir’s hand off if he tried anything. Not that he would without permission. He’s a kind hearted man. Very respectful. 

Mostly he is glad to be going somewhere new because neither of them have had much to do since they woke on board Terror. They’ve gone from a life spent working all day long on the brutal task of survival, to being well fed and cared for, warm and rested. Thomas misses action. He wants something physical and challenging to accomplish. His mind too has gone soft with nothing to occupy it but what is to be had for supper, and of course with thoughts of how the lamplight falls against Crozier’s gold-silver hair. 

Soon, they can see a large ice house in the distance. It is in the shape of a dome, and smoke is piping merrily from what must be a hole at the top of it. The sled pulls to a stop outside the house, and they all rise and step out of it. Before they have a chance to go very far, Goodsir is there, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, cleanly shaven, mutton chops neatly trimmed. He is smiling from ear to ear and virtually throws himself into Thomas’ arms. “Leftenant Jopson!” he cries. “It is so good to see you alive and well!”

It is then that Thomas remembers his latent promotion to Leftenant. He’d forgotten the small ceremony in Crozier’s Captain’s tent on that day that felt so long ago now. He squeezes Goodsir tightly and then holds him at arm's length. “You look well,” he says, a broad smile on his face and joy in his heart. “It’s mighty good to see you again too, Goodsir.”

Goodsir then goes to shake hands with Crozier and is instead pulled into a fierce embrace. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to know that you still live,” Crozier says, into the dark curls of Goodsir’s hair as he holds him tightly. 

“I as well Captain,” Goodsir responds. Both their voices are thick with emotion. He pulls away eventually and asks if they would like to come inside. “You’ll be pleasantly surprised by our lodgings,” he says with a sly grin as he bends to lead them through the short hallway at the entrance of the ice house. The hall soon opens up into a large space, carpeted with furs, a large fire pit at the center. Thomas notes the two sleeping platforms, beds made of what looks like tree branches, covered thickly with furs and blankets with interest. 

Silence sits on one of the beds and rises as they enter. It’s the first time he’s seen her outside of her thick fur suit and hood that she’d worn every time he’d encountered her previously. Instead, she is in what looks like a simple shift, made of soft animal skins. It gathers at the waist and falls to her feet and has no sleeves to speak of. Her arms are well muscled and golden brown, her neck slender. Her dark hair is gathered in a loose braid that falls over one shoulder. She looks more female than she had before. Softer and more approachable, rather than a strange denizen of the ice and snow. She’s pretty, he realizes. Something else he’d never taken the time to think much about in the madness before their rescue. 

He nods a simple greeting in her direction, and she nods back, her face unreadable. Captain Crozier greets her in her native tongue, and her expression warms a little. 

Soon, all six of them are seated, either on one of the two beds, which are wide and comfortable, or on piles of furs and homespun pillows that litter the ice house floor. Goodsir had asked Crozier and Thomas to please remove their boots upon entering, and they are now in their stockinged feet. Thomas takes a seat, legs akimbo on the floor opposite Doctor Smith, while Crozier and Mrs. Ramirez sit on one bed and Goodsir and Silence on another. The fire pit crackles merrily between them. 

Mrs. Ramirez speaks up first. “We thought it was time, since the four of you have had several weeks to recuperate, that we meet and discuss next steps. Smith here is a linguist who speaks fluent Inuktitut, and so he will be translating my words so that Lady Silence may also understand what they say.” She pauses and Smith does indeed rattle off a long string of Inuit words. Thomas feels his eyebrows lift in surprise. White men who speak the Inuit tongue are rare. He knows only of Captain Crozier and Thomas Blanky who speak it, and them not fluently. 

From the lack of surprise on Goodsir and Silence’s faces, this is a thing they are now accustomed to, and Thomas thinks probably that Smith has served them in the same capacity that Mrs. Ramirez has served he and Crozier. As a liaison. A guide. 

“It is time for us to provide you all with more details surrounding why you are here, and indeed, where here is,” Mrs. Ramirez continues, mirrored by the Inuktitut translation of her words by Smith. “The truth behind your location, and the reasons behind why you were rescued are very difficult for most people to understand, and so we will start slowly.” She pauses and waits for Smith to finish translating before continuing. 

“I must first inform you that many years have gone by since you were stranded aboard Erebus and Terror. More years than perhaps you can comprehend. And because of this long lapse of time, many technological advances have been made. Many of these advances will be very startling to you, some may even seem as if they are powers bestowed by magic, or some sort of omnipotent god. I must assure you however, that they are only due to increased knowledge in the workings of and manipulations of things you are all familiar with. Steel, copper, glass, and other elements in combination with the power of the natural world. It is only that as the years have passed, we have discovered many scientific things that were unknown to men and women of your time.”

She pauses again, and waits for Smith to finish. Thomas is confused, but intrigued. He wonders about these new scientific advancements and tries to imagine godlike powers achieved by man’s own ingenuity. 

Mrs. Ramirez continues. “I think it will help you to prepare yourselves to understand what we say by thinking of times in your own ancient history. Would not the people of the 14th century be astounded by the construction of your spy glasses? Your diving suit? Your steam engines and tin cans and matches? Starting a fire simply by rubbing a stick against a rough surface, when previously, tinder must have been employed.”

Thomas nods, as does Crozier and Goodsir. Silence does not move nor change her expression, but appears to be listening intently. She is the least likely to understand the goings on, being from a race of people with no written language and very little technology. As if reading his mind, Mrs. Ramirez mentions Silence.

“Lady Silence upon first seeing your ships might have had a similar experience. Erebus and Terror, the dynomite you used to try and break yourselves free from the ice, your food, your clothing, the metal buttons on your uniforms. All of these things might have been very unusual to her at first sight. She was able however, to take such new things in stride and become curious about them, rather than let them terrify her, or rather than choosing to run from them. She came aboard your ships, she ate your food, spoke to your crew members, and she eventually grew accustomed to your strange ways. This is a similar thing we are asking of you. Only ten fold. For the things we have to show you are things no person from the year 1848 or before has ever imagined.” 

Thomas feels a thrill of excitement at hearing her words.  _ Yes!  _ This is the sort of thing he has been craving ever since he realized that they were safe and warm. The chance to embark on a new adventure.

“What year is it now?” Asks Crozier. He is looking steadily at Mrs. Ramirez. It’s a look Thomas knows well. Crozier is a direct man, and he prefers to get right to the point. It is a quality Thomas has always admired greatly. 

“I cannot tell you at the moment, but know that many years have elapsed since you last were stuck on the ice with your men. And that being shielded from this passage of time… that you and your companions have not aged, is the effect of yet another piece of modern technological advancement that will be very difficult to understand.”

Crozier doesn’t look happy, but he falls silent, frowning in thought. Ramirez goes on. “It might help you to begin to understand if you think of us, Smith, myself and the others who assist us as being sailors as well. We also sail the seas in a manner of speaking, and we live on board a very large ship. A ship ten times the size of Erebus and Terror combined.” She pauses again to let her words be heard and mulled over for a moment before speaking up again. “We also have a Captain of sorts, and a Commander. Only we call him Supervisor. Supervisor Riley, whom you will meet eventually. And there are many scientists and researchers and specialists on board our massive ship. We were tasked with rescuing people such as yourselves. People with significant historical experience and knowledge to come aboard our ship and help us in research.”

“Why could you not rescue all of my men?” Crozier speaks up again. He sounds calm, but intent. His blue eyes fixed steadily on Mrs. Ramirez’s face. The lady appears a little taken aback by the question, or perhaps it is just Crozier’s scrutiny, and Thomas knows how she feels. Having Crozier’s intense and undivided attention can be a bit intimidating. 

“We could not for several reasons,” she replies. “One being that we cannot change the course of human history. If we were to rescue all of the men, then none of their bones would ever have been found, which was a scientific impossibility. To lose over a hundred men in roughly a few hundred square mile location and not find a single sign of their remains would have raised too many questions.” She pauses again, giving Smith time to catch up, and her face grows serious. 

“Secondly, and I mean this in the least insulting way I possibly can, but most of your men had no knowledge that would have been very useful to us. Largely, they were from poor or working class backgrounds, with low levels of formal education, and very similar life experiences. Captain Crozier on the other hand, is a long time ship’s captain from an upper class background. He had access to more education and a more specialized range of experiences. Goodsir was well versed in medical procedures of your time, and Silence is a rare person indeed, being an Inuk woman with startling connections to the Tuunbaq and a highly specialized set of life experiences to draw from. Not to mention a native speaker of Inuktitut.”

“What about me?” Thomas speaks up, feeling an unpleasant tightening in the center of his chest. He cannot imagine a single thing about him that is special. 

Mrs. Ramirez turns to him with a kind smile. “You had the most experience as a petty officer, which is a level between the sailors of the lower decks and the command officers. As well as experiences of working class life. You also showed very promising signs of being open to new ideas and doubtful of strict religion. All three of you men showed signs of being open to new and surprising ideas and excited by the prospect of the acquisition of knowledge and the opportunity for adventure.”

“Doctor Stanley was a far better medical man than I,” Goodsir speaks up for the first time. He looks embarrassed to have everyone’s eyes on him, and fidgets with his hands in his lap. “He would have made a far better candidate if medical knowledge was what you were after.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Ramirez responds. “But also, he showed strong signs of sociopathy. Which, if you are unfamiliar with the term, can mean a callous disregard for the feelings of others. He was also struggling with an undiagnosed illness of the mind. The illness that caused him to self-immolate at your carnival. You on the other hand Doctor Goodsir, are a compassionate and kind individual. You care deeply about the men you helped, and deeply about human life in general. And you also showed signs of open mindedness and distrust in religion and superstition. For example, of all the men aboard either ship, it was really only yourself and Captain Crozier who showed any kindness for or trust in your dealings with Lady Silence. A man like Stanley would have been a liability.”

Lady Silence, upon hearing the description of Goodsir’s finer qualities in her own language, reaches to him and places her hand over his. He covers hers with his other hand and they look at one another quite softly. Thomas sees the love between them as clear as day and he tries not to let the bitterness of that morning’s rejection from Crozier taint the happiness he feels for them both. 

“How is it that we are on board a ship, when we are clearly in the ice, with the sun shining overhead?” Crozier asks next. 

“That is possibly something too confusing to address now,” Mrs. Ramirez says, but not unkindly. It is clear that she is being patient and attempting to choose her words wisely. “All will be explained in time, but just as we had you grow accustomed to having plenty of food, and to the warmer weather, and to the changes you might have seen around you before telling you more, we must tell you small bits of knowledge and wait for you to grow accustomed to them before more can be revealed. Many years of research have proven that this is the safest way to induct people into our society. You will understand all in time.”

“And if we do not wish to be inducted into this society of yours?” Crozier says, the challenge clear in his voice. It is a side of him that Thomas also knows well. Stubborn, demanding, obstinate. 

“Then we can talk about alternatives,” Mrs. Ramirez says. “As I explained before, you are not prisoners. And we will not compel you to do anything you do not wish to do. The only thing we did without your permission was to save you from death and heal you of your wounds. We assumed this would be a welcome alternative to dying on the cold rocks on King William Land. Unfortunately, if you wish we had not done so, there is nothing we can do to return you there.” Her tone is brusque but not unfeeling. She is stating facts as she sees them, not trying to sweeten her words, nor trying to sway them to her point of view with flattery or manipulations. It makes Thomas trust her, regardless of the very strange circumstances they find themselves in.

“I think though, that once you have become apprised of all the facts, you will wish to join our society. You are, with the exception of Silence, a group of men who signed up for a dangerous and potentially fatal mission to a strange land. You did so for a variety of reasons, but you did it nonetheless. The help and the work we will be asking of you will be the most fascinating, illuminating, exciting and profound of your lives. I do not say this from vanity, presumption or arrogance. It is the simple truth. But… if you wish not to join us, comfortable and enjoyable accommodations will be found for you. You will not be harmed, and will be allowed to live out your lives as happily as possible.”

Then she pauses, looks around at each of them before continuing. “Myself and Mr. Smith will leave you to talk amongst yourselves for the time being. We will be nearby and if you wish to go back to the ship, please simply step out of the iglu and we will be along shortly.” And with that, she rises. Smith continues translating her words into Inuktitut and rises as well, and they exit the ice house. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my version of events, Crozier is never forced to eat Goodsir's flesh. It would just have been too awkward LOL

Thomas looks to Crozier, who is in turn looking at Goodsir and Silence. “Did you perhaps happen to be given memories of your lives leading up to your rescue?” Crozier asks. His voice is very quiet and gentle, and Thomas senses something beneath it that he cannot identify.

“I did,” Goodsir says, looking down at his hands.

“I saw you dead,” Crozier says. “I saw you dead and in a condition I dare not speak of now. Can you tell me how it is that you live?”

Goodsir shakes his head. He looks ashamed and confused, his expressive brows lifting over eyes filled with sadness. Silence moves closer to him and places her hand on his back. “I intended to take my own life,” he said. “I hatched the plan when I found out that Hickey… well, you know what Hickey wanted to do.” 

Thomas is confused. “What did Hickey want to do?” He asks. Crozier turns to him, expression gentling. “He was committing cannibalism,” he says. “Whenever a man died, he and the remaining men would carve them up and eat them. I am sorry I did not tell you about the memories that were returned to me. None of it would have made you feel anything but sadness and horror. And in all honesty, I did not want to recount them.” 

Thomas had sensed Crozier’s silence around his own memories and had not pushed. Truth be told, he hadn’t been sure he’d been ready for what the Captain had seen either. And now, the thought of Hickey and his men eating human flesh. He suppressed a shudder and swallowed thickly.

“It was what they decided to do to stay alive,” Goodsir says. “I cannot fault them. The only thing I can fault them for is that they murdered good men while under the sway of Hickey and Tozer’s mutinous command. I am certain they’d have murdered me if given the right opportunity.” He stops and takes a deep breath before continuing. “I had decided to poison them,” he says. “I had intended to pour all of my toxic poisons, arsenic, cyanide and strychnine into a bowl and painted my skin with them. I then would have drank a good deal of the mixture and then cut my wrists. Hickey would be just mad enough to see my taking of my own life as an opportunity for sustenance and would have hopefully fed me to the men.”

“He did.” Crozier’s voice is thick with emotion, and when Thomas looks at him, he sees his Captain’s face suffused with confusion and pain. “I saw you,” he says. “I saw you cut up. They tried to make me partake of your flesh, but I refused, just as you advised me to. Hickey was none too happy, but he decided on starving me as punishment.”

“Then I have no explanation for how I now live,” Goodsir says. He has taken up one of Silence’s hands and is holding it absently. It’s a small action that speaks volumes to their closeness in this strange new place. “The last thing I remember is our conversation, Captain. The one where I warned you not to eat of my flesh were they to try to feed it to you. When I awoke here, I did not even remember that much. I remembered being on board the Terror, and then leaving to walk south, and nothing after that.”

“As did we,” Thomas speaks up at last. “We were spared our final memories for the first several weeks after we woke back aboard the ship. We were given capsules, small tablets that gave us our memories back.”

Goodsir nods. “The same were given to us. It was... well, it was very uncomfortable. Very painful to see what became of the men who took me with them. How their hearts had turned black, and how they followed Hickey as if he were some sort of great leader, rather than a cold blooded murderer and a half-mad mutineer.” He looks to Silence briefly before looking back at Crozier. “I don’t know what it is she saw,” he says, "but she wept and held onto me, and so it must not have been pleasant. But she was asked, the same as I assume you both were, and warned that it would not be easy to see, and still she insisted on taking the capsule. She is brave.” 

Crozier nods. “I too remembered many things I wish I had not. The Tuunbaq,” he says, voice hushed. “It came for Hickey, Tozer and the rest. It devoured most of them, gorged itself on their bodies and died, not four feet from me. I was chained to it. I lost consciousness and woke up aboard Terror. It was difficult to see those men’s fate and that horrible beast again, but I’d rather have those memories than have them lost to the mists of forgetfulness.

“Agreed sir,” Thomas chimes in. Crozier places a warm hand to Thomas’ shoulder and Thomas can’t help but lean against that contact. Crozier’s eyes meet his and there’s so much fondness and sorrow mixed in his gaze that Thomas has to swiftly look away, back at Goodsir and Silence. 

“What do you make of all this?” Crozier asks. “Do you think you will join their ranks? Work for this society they speak of?” 

Goodsir shrugs. “I would like to. I cannot in truth imagine another outcome. I am fascinated daily by the changes happening around us. By the inexplicable way of things here. I hunger for more knowledge and a chance to do some good in the world. But you are our Captain sir. What say you to this change of events?”

Crozier shakes his head. “I am no longer anyone’s Captain,” and Thomas feels a pang of sadness at hearing those words. “I have no ship left, and only two men. I hereby resign from the position of Captain and join the both of you as new recruits.” This last part is said with a melancholy half-smile. 

“But sir-” Thomas cannot stand by and watch as Crozier renounces his title. “We are still in need of leadership sir, surely you don’t mean to-”

“Thomas,” Crozier puts his hand back on Thomas’ shoulder. “I am not your Captain any longer. I am companion to both of you. I will give you my opinion if you request it, but I am not a leader in this place. And to tell the truth, I am sick of the role. I’ve led far too many men to their deaths since we set sail from London. I am a passenger now. The same as you and Doctor Goodsir.”

Thomas does not wish to believe such a thing, that his Captain wishes to relinquish his title, but he supposes that if it is what Crozier wants… 

Goodsir seems similarly resigned. “If you insist sir.” 

“Please, if you can remember to, I’d like it if you’d both call me Francis,” Crozier asks. “Let's dispense with the formalities shall we?”

Goodsir smirks a bit and shakes his head. “I shall try, sir. I doubt you’ll get such a promise from Jopson.” 

Thomas frowns. “I’ll do no such thing!” he insists. “I will call you sir, or Captain.”

This makes Crozier’s face fall for some reason that Thomas does not understand. 

_______

The three of them talk for a while longer. Crozier expresses his sorrow to Lady Silence over any pain his men may have caused her in his halting Inuktitut, and she bows her head in an apparent acknowledgement, but does not communicate further. She’s spent the last few hours watching the men while they speak, often touching Goodsir in a reassuring or affectionate way, taking his hand, putting her own hand on his back, even leaning against him and resting her head on his shoulder at one point. This new affection between them is heartening. Thomas knows that Goodsir loves Silence. And he is happy that at least the kind doctor has found a sort of happiness, even if he cannot. 

She prepares a meal for them, of what looks like cooked meat (Goodsir informs them it is Caribou), and corn cakes that are quite delicious, and they have cups of perfectly good English tea with it. Goodsir shows them the large porcelain tub in a small room to the side of the main room that fills with hot water twice daily so that he and Silence can bathe, and they are astounded. He shows them his stocked larder and they share stories of their own plentiful food. “Our hosts are certainly treating us well,” Goodsir remarks. 

Eventually, once they have postulated pointlessly over the future of their situation, and have traded more details of what they remember happening to them before they were brought here, Crozier announces that he would like to go. Thomas agrees. It has been a long and strange day and his bed is calling to him. 

They say their goodbyes and step out of the ice house and back into the endless sunshine, and soon the dog sled arrives, with Smith and Mrs. Ramirez in tow, and they embark. 

Crozier is silent on the return trip, just as he was on the trip out, and Thomas does not speak either. He needs to be alone. To think. To let the feelings and thoughts and memories this afternoon evoked to settle inside his mind and heart. It was so very good to see Goodsir and Silence again, but it is confusing to hear Crozier renounce his title as Captain. That change makes Thomas feel adrift even more than all the other unexplainable changes that have occurred since the Expedition. 

Thomas realizes that he needs distance from Crozier. He needs to discover how he feels about their new connection. How he will deal with the rejection of his advances that had transpired earlier that morning. His love for Crozier grows stronger with each passing day, and the knowledge that it is not wanted, or worse, that it might be repugnant or disturbing to Crozier is tearing him up inside. He cannot let his feelings compromise his dedication to keeping Crozier safe, and in helping Crozier, Goodsir and Silence in whatever capacity he can. He will sleep on it, and perhaps spend a day or two apart from his former Captain and see what happens then. How this is meant to be accomplished, when they are the only two men aboard, is something he has not quite figured out yet, but he’ll find a way to get some distance. It is that, or do something rash. Something like perhaps trying to kiss Crozier the next time he looks at Thomas with those sad, fond, sparkling blue eyes. 

Once they’ve bid Mrs. Ramirez and Mr. Smith goodbye, and the two have walked off and disappeared out of sight, (a cursory glance over the side of the ship shows the dogsled is gone as well) Thomas turns to Crozier. “Sir,” he begins. 

“Francis,” Crozier corrects him half heartedly. He’s wearing a soft, one sided grin and Thomas cannot bear to look at him for long, and glances down at his hands instead. “I cannot call you by your first name sir. It’s not proper.” Thomas hears Crozier sigh, soft and deep, but he gathers his courage and continues, his eyes trained on his boots and the worn surface of the deck beneath them, which is now inexplicably smoother and closer to glass than wood. “I will spend tomorrow on my own I think,” he says, feeling horrible for wanting to be apart from Crozier, knowing that they are each other’s only company. 

“Are you alright Thomas?” Crozier’s voice is very gentle. Thomas can feel Crozier’s eyes on him, but he dare not look up.

“I am well sir. All of this is just very confusing, and I think perhaps it best if I take some time to think. On my own that is. It is not that I don’t want your company sir… I… well…” he finds he cannot say anything else without saying too much.

“And I yours Thomas. Look, about this morning-”

“Don’t give it a second thought sir,” Thomas is quick to cut him off before he can be rejected. “I crossed a line with you sir, and I am mortified over it. You must believe me, I meant no disrespect. I am not some sort of… of….” his mind fills with disparaging words. Words he’s heard used to describe men like himself, and he cannot bring himself to say any of them out loud, and really, he finds he cannot lie to Crozier anyway. “I meant no disrespect sir,” he finishes lamely. 

“There was none taken Thomas. None taken at all. I do want to talk to you about it...” he lets his words hang in the air between them.

“Some other time sir?” Thomas hates the pleading note that’s leaked into his voice, but he cannot bear to hear Crozier tell him he sees him as a son, or that he cannot ever return the sorts of affection that were so clearly illustrated when Thomas had plunged his fingers into Crozier’s hair. “I think I’ll take to my bunk now. If you have urgent need of me, I will of course come to your aid, but other than that, I would like to take the day to myself tomorrow, if that’s alright.”

“Of course it is.” Crozier’s voice is so sad and so resigned. Thomas hates the sound of his Captain ( _no, not his Captain any longer_ he reminds himself firmly) feeling this way. “You are your own man. You take all the time you need, Thomas. Or would you prefer I called you Jopson?” 

Thomas feels himself grin through his sadness. “Thomas is just fine sir,” he replies. “Good evening to you.” 

“And to you.”

Thomas does not linger. He heads directly below decks and to his room. He undresses and climbs into bed, falling asleep quickly, and into dreams of a ship with sails the size of a giant iceberg, it’s great mast rising up to block out the sun.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of plot development and then a gigantic pile of pining. Because I concocted this whole plot just to make Jopson and Crozier pine for one another. I am weak.

“I think it went well,” Smith remarks to Ramirez when they’ve exited the Holo-Rooms. “They seem an open minded lot.”

“They do,” agrees Ramirez. She certainly hopes they are. She likes all four of them the more she talks to them. Had liked them back before she’d spoken a word to any of them really. Back in the Recon and Observation days. Watching the Observation files play across her monitor, seeing the men toiling away in their horrible ships, still managing to laugh, to share warmth and support for each other. It had been humbling. 

No one that currently lived (outside of other Historical Acquisitions,) knew what it was like to starve, to feel such physical discomforts, nor to suddenly lose so many of those they cared about. Disease had been mostly eradicated by now, as had most natural discomforts such as extreme heat and cold. A person could go their entire lives without once feeling hunger or physical uncertainty if that’s what they wished. Mental disorders had been reduced to a bear minimum as well. Gone were the days of severe clinical anxiety and depression. To watch these men struggle and suffer and still maintain a ragged smile, or the ability to sing a tune and cheer each other with their cups at the end of a day had been deeply humbling indeed. 

Crozier, Jopson, Goodsir and Silence, (Silna, but since the men did not yet know this fact, and she’d had no way to tell them, Ramirez could not speak that name aloud), were good people. And she liked them very much. 

Jopson in particular she had a soft spot for. They went through extensive training to avoid forming attachments of a deep nature to the Acquisitions during the integration process. And so Ramirez knew she couldn’t act on her urges to be more friendly or affectionate to Jopson, but she wanted to. He reminded her so very much of her cousin Juan. His shy smile and self effacing manner hiding a wicked sense of humor and a spark of obstinance. 

Jopson was also hiding something her cousin Juan would never dream of keeping secret. The fact that he was same sex attracted. There were no neutral or non derogatory words for that orientation in the mid nineteenth century, and acclimating Jopson and Crozier to the reality that all sorts of ways of being had been decriminalized and were now celebrated as a normal part of human identity and development might prove challenging. 

Perhaps if and when Jopson successfully finishes Integration, she’ll look him up and get to know him better. That much is allowed. And Acquisitions and Agents falling in love and pair bonding was not an unheard of scenario. Not that this is what she feels for Jopson. Only that she likes him so very much and wants to spend more time with him. 

Smith is speaking and so she pulls her mind away from such sentimental thoughts and pays attention. “Meeting with Riley at nineteen hundred. I’ll see you there?”

She nods and watches her fellow Agent walk off in the direction of Linguistics Lab, to log his interactions and findings from their outing. There’s a quarter hour of time between now and the start of the meeting, and she knows she must do the same, must enter her psychological and sociological observations into the daily findings log in the Psychoanalysis Lab, and change clothing, if she has time, before meeting with Riley. 

She manages to log her findings, but doesn’t have time to change. Which is fine. It’s expected for Agents to wander around the ship’s corridors in costume now and then. Part of the job. She  _ does _ however peel the wig from her head and scrubs fingers through her close cropped, black curls on her way to Riley’s office. 

Supervisor Riley is an imposing man. Six feet, four inches tall, broad shouldered, with arms and legs like tree trunks. His shaved head and unreadable expression don’t make him less imposing, and neither does his rich, deep voice. There’s rumors around the ship that he’s the descendent of some thousand year old African king, but in this line of business, rumors like that abound. People also postulate that rather than being descended from kings, that he  _ is  _ one. A ruler of Babylonia or Egypt. That he was one of the earlier Acquisitions that took to modern life so well that he managed to rise to the ranks to achieve Project Supervisor without any of the lower level agents being the wiser. 

Whatever he is, he makes Ramirez and the other agents nervous. Which, in hindsight is a good quality for a Reclamation Project Supervisor to have. There are trillions of dollars invested in these sorts of projects. Lots of media attention. One wrong step and the whole Agency could suffer irreparable bad press and significant losses in funding. 

Riley though isn’t a disciplinarian. He doesn’t have to be. His presence, and his low, sonorous voice go a long way to making all of the Agents jump to do his bidding. No one wants to disappoint him, and he doles out praises rarely, but when he does, you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

She enters the conference room and takes a seat in the semicircle of chairs across from Riley. Smith is there, along with  Daniels, Percival, Ito, Gonzalez, Nguyen and Rogers . 

“What’s happening with our newest Acquisitions?” Riley asks, “Smith, Ramirez, report please.”

Ramirez speaks up first. “They seem to be acclimating well, sir,” she begins. “Crozier is asking questions, but I expected him to. Regardless, he hasn’t shown significant signs of psychological trauma. No flashes of irrational anger or more than the average amount of trouble sleeping. Jopson is fairing well too. I’m honestly impressed at their mental elasticity.”

“Goodsir and Silence are progressing well also,” Smith chimes in, tapping at a small keyboard in the sleeve of his jumpsuit, his eyes growing distant as he reads records from his internal system. “They seem content, if confused. Very domestic. Very calm individuals really.”

“Excellent,” Riley replies and Ramirez feels her stomach settle and her shoulders unclench at hearing his approval. “What about that hubbub I heard about this morning with Jopson and Crozier?”

“Not sure sir,” Ramirez says. “Some sort of emotional hiccup. It didn’t take place during the approved observation windows, so I can’t say, but whatever it was, they seemed to have weathered it well.”

“Good, good. Keep a close eye on them anyway Ramirez. They get along well, but Crozier is a hothead, and an unpredictable one at that. I don’t want him going rogue on us. Is there any danger to Jopson? Does Crozier show any signs of a possibility for violence?”

Ramirez smiles. “No sir. He’d probably rather cut his own arm off than harm Jopson. I don't think we have any worries in that department.”

“Very well. Either way, can’t be too careful. Please find the corresponding vitals spike and observe the footage. I want to give them their privacy, but add another observation cycle to the schedule. There’s a lot going on there.” 

There is indeed. Ramirez makes a note in her log to add an extra ten  minute window of observation tomorrow. 

_______

Francis feels Thomas Jopson’s absence the next day fiercely. He’s grown so accustomed to the younger man’s semi-constant presence in his life, that when breakfast time comes and goes and Jopson does not arrive with his smiling face and tray of carefully prepared food, Crozier must face the fact that he’s grown far too emotionally dependent on his former steward. 

He walks grumpily to the galley and fetches himself some bread and cheese and an apple for his breakfast before retiring to his room. He’s frightfully bored inside of an hour, and wonders when he became the sort of man who was incapable of occupying himself without pleasant company around. 

And of course He knows it’s not just anyone’s company he misses, but Jopson’s in particular. 

He plays their interactions from the morning before over and over in his head, relishing the memory of Jopson’s fingertips, scraping gently up the back of his scalp, Jopson’s fingers tightening into gentle fists in his hair. He had been entirely unprepared for such an act. His body had lit up with a hot spike of lust that had taken his breath away, and within a fraction of a second he’d turned to putty in Thomas Jopson’s hands. It is embarrassing really, the speed and totality of the arousal that had consumed him. Just thinking of it has him half erect inside his trousers. 

Of course it had not come out of nowhere, this swell of lust. It had started the moment Jopson had begun to cut his hair. The tender touch of the man’s finger tips against his cheek and his nape and around his ears. The tingling spark of each follicle as Jopson had tugged and swept at his hair with well practiced gentleness. He’d been half gone by the time Jopson had done what he’d done. And then all Francis Crozier had been equipped to do was to gasp and curse, moan and fall back into Jopson’s hands. It had been mortifying. For all he knew, he had imagined the intense intimacy of the touch. Perhaps Jopson had simply wished to check the fall of Crozier’s hair, to test it’s evenness by clenching those soft fistfuls. It felt erotic in the extreme, but that could simply be Crozier’s touch starved, love addled senses that made it so. 

And then, Jopson’s breathing the word  _ Captain _ . Had Francis imagined the rough, wrecked sound of the man’s voice? Having realized far too belatedly that he’d conjured depths to Sophia Cracroft’s affection, to the point that he’d proposed marriage and had been rejected  _ more than once, _ had Francis doubting his senses. Having spent four years trapped on the ice with no one for intimate company other than his astoundingly beautiful steward had warped his senses even further. Perhaps it had been extreme nervousness that made Jopson’s voice ragged around the edges. He cannot trust his own memories. 

And this had been why he’d pulled away, asked Jopson to leave. Why he couldn’t find the courage to turn and face the other man. Not when he was stiff and throbbing inside his small clothes, nor when his face was flushed with the heat of intense arousal. Not when he might see disgust or discomfort written across those lovely features. Shadows of disappointment or pity in the pale, ice-blue of Jopson’s eyes. 

The rest of the day had gone reassuringly well. They’d finally been reunited with Goodsir and Silence. They’d learned more about their situation, and Jopson had seemed to warm back up to Francis. If only the man hadn’t side stepped Francis’ request to talk about the situation. But Francis Crozier knew how to be patient when he had to be. He’d wait until Jopson came to him. There would be no second breaching of the topic. And if Jopson never brings it up? Well then, it will be disappointing to not have that closure, but Francis will manage somehow. He’ll have to, even if the thought of never getting closer to Thomas Jopson makes his heart clench with a pang of sharp regret inside his chest.

He opens his Captain’s log and makes painstaking notes of all he can remember transpiring yesterday (leaving out his interactions with Jopson of course). It dawns on him that their enigmatic hosts have done a clever thing by forcing them to live in comfort and ease for weeks before bringing in more details of their situation. Francis is a man of action. All of his men were men of action as well. He and Jopson (though he can’t speak for Goodsir) crave physical labor, scientific discovery, challenges to overcome, problems to solve. Francis feels like a well fed house cat, and the boredom and safety have started to gnaw at his brain, make his limbs twitch with the urge to put himself to some sort of good use. 

He can sense this restlessness from Jopson as well. Perhaps that is all part of their hosts plans? Put a pair of seasoned Navy men into a safe and secure environment and then wait until they beg to be given something useful to do, thereby gaining eager and willing recruits. 

Francis knows that he will sign up for this secret society regardless. How can he refuse? In the short time they’ve been here, on board what is apparently only a clever copy of his ship, he has seen and experienced things that confound description. He hungers for more knowledge, and he thinks he can take in stride whatever might come next. This is an adventure of a thousand lifetimes. A thing no one he has ever met has been afforded the opportunity to experience. He would be a blasted fool to refuse their hosts.

He prays that Jopson feels similarly, for continuing on without him is not a thing Francis can even contemplate at this time. He realizes with a start that he never again wishes to be parted from Jopson. Not for any length of time longer than a few days at most. He is a man in love, and whether that love is accepted or returned makes no difference. He has found a companion he wishes to be with always. 

Scolding himself for allowing such romantic imaginings to distract him, he sets about cleaning up his cabin before deciding to embark on a walk out on the pack. If it leads nowhere, then so be it, but he has to move, must move his legs and arms and breath the air, before he’s driven mad with boredom and the repeated imaginings of a pair of pale blue eyes. 

____________

Thomas starts when a slip of paper is slid beneath his door. The small, rasping of paper against wood sounds quite loud in the silence of the ship. He supposes his wandering thoughts had even distracted him from truly hearing the sound of Crozier’s footsteps approaching his room, for now he can hear them thunking away again.

He bends to pick up the paper and unfolds it to find a simple note written there. 

_ Went for a walk out on the pack. I will return inside of a few hours. _

_ \- Crozier _

Thomas instantly wishes he could accompany Crozier, and then scolds himself. This day apart had been his own idea after all. It would not do to insist on it, only to run to Crozier like a lost puppy at the first possible opportunity. 

He’s thought a lot about what had transpired between them the morning before, and he cannot make heads nor tails of it. He knows what desire looks like. He’s had several encounters in the years leading up the Franklin expedition, and he’s no stranger to the reactions of a man’s body when that man wishes to take a tumble with him. He’s been told many times by his bed partners (not to mention a lecherous uncle and one very forward commanding officer on route to the Antarctic who’d groped him late one night in the corridor outside his cabin), that he is beautiful. He does not quite believe these men, seeing his looks as average at best. His chin is too large and prominent, mouth a bit too wide, and eyes eerily pale to the point of colournessless. His cheeks ruddy in a way he finds embarrassing. A continual blush. He assumes that the men who approach him (for he never does the approaching) are pleased by his looks, and takes them for their word, but he does not see himself as beautiful. 

He would never have dreamed that Crozier would be one of the few men who finds him attractive in that sort of manner. Their relationship, while warm and close in only the way two men can be warm and close when one is required to dress and serve the other, has always been professional. 

Except of course when Crozier was lost in the depths of his alcohol sickness. It was then that the lines blurred a little between Captain and steward. He’d cleaned Crozier up after he’d made a mess of himself, had helped him onto and off of the seat of ease. He’d soothingly stroked Crozier’s back while he’d heaved into the basin, and had laid cold cloths on his brow when he was feverish. He’d become Crozier’s nursemaid. 

Most would see this as an arduous task, but Thomas loved every moment of it. Not his Captain’s pain of course. He didn’t love that. That made him feel horrible inside. A sadness and a discomfort tugging at his heart whenever Crozier would groan or convulse, or when he’d cry out in his sleep, as the specters of the whiskey leaving his system sent horrid images through his unconscious mind. It was the  _ caring _ that Thomas loved. He’d wanted to be this sort of tender toward Crozier for the longest time. And with that tenderness safely masquerading as the care a devoted steward shows his Captain, he’d been able to indulge in the pure pleasure of seeing to every one of Crozier’s needs. Dabbing at his brow. Letting his fingers run through Crozier’s hair and stroking his hand along the Captain’s upper arm and back in order to soothe him. There was no sexual spark to be gained from this act. It was only an allowance he was given to touch the man in more ways, to feel even closer to him.

And then, yesterday morning, he’d felt that urge again. To get closer. Only not under the guise of caring for a sick man. He’d wanted to touch Crozier as a lover does. Had felt the strong pull of that urge at the center of him, made all the sharper by the feel of Crozier’s now clean and silky soft hair as it slipped through his fingers. 

Crozier’s body had exhibited blatant signs of arousal. the increased rise and fall of his chest as his breathing sped up, the blush that had bloomed across his cheeks and pinked the tips of his ears. He’d let out a gasp and then a moan, the sound of which had tugged at Thomas’ loins as surely as if Crozier had touched him there physically. 

And then, just as quickly as it had come over them both, Crozier had moved away, gotten to his feet, turned his back to Thomas and asked him to leave. Thomas’ arousal had been dampened by confusion and embarrassment, and he’d left, feeling shame curl in the pit of his stomach, where just seconds before, a hot pool of lust had been, it’s heat trembling and ready to unfurl itself into the bloom of shared pleasure. 

Why had Crozier shown such clear signs of interest only to reject Thomas? He couldn’t say. He postulated that Crozier had been thinking of someone else. That the long and lonely years at sea had transformed Jopson’s touch into the touch of some far away lost lover in Crozier’s mind. A woman back in England. He’d heard rumors that the Captain had been courting someone before the expedition had set sail. And then, when Thomas had touched Crozier’s hair, so tenderly, in such an intimate manner, he’d set off a spark of need inside Crozier. But Thomas had apparently not been the intended target of that need. 

Such a knowledge hurt Thomas. But what else is he to surmise? They are both fully grown men, alone and unwatched (except by the mysterious hosts that drop in now and then). Had he wanted Thomas, all Crozier would have needed to do was to reach out and take him. And he almost had. He’d grasped Thomas by the wrist and pressed that devastating kiss into the palm of his hand. Thomas had felt that softness and that heat from Crozier’s lips shoot through him like a bolt of lightning, charging him up all along his spine and down to the souls of his feet. 

To go from that, to a request that Thomas leave… it had been difficult. And this was the reason he’d requested a day to be on his own. He’d needed more time before he was in close contact with Crozier again. Time to push that lustful heat down inside himself and lock it away. Time to come to terms with the idea that Crozier did not want him. Not in the way Thomas wanted Crozier. As a lover.

He will dedicate himself to a friendship with Crozier if that’s what his former Captain wants. And if he needs to suppress his deeper feelings, then he’ll do that. It will be just another in a long list of things he does for Crozier. A long list of things he does out of love and devotion. He’ll serve silently now, and keep his swelling heart to himself. 


	10. Chapter 10

“You’ll do _what_?” Harry Goodsir stares at Doctor Smith with his mouth hanging open in surprise. 

“I said we can replace her tongue, Doctor Goodsir. We can give her a new tongue,” he turns to Lady Silence and repeats himself again in Inuktitut. She stares at him with a similar face, unsure of how to respond, and Harry reaches a hand over and places it on hers. 

“But how?” he asks, his mind spinning with questions. There must be a donor, a fresh one, and the sutures needed to graft a tongue back in place must be very delicate indeed. 

“With technology. With science. With surgical procedures that are far beyond those that you would be familiar with.” Smith replies. He’s wearing a sly grin, and Harry can tell he is enjoying their confusion in a kindly way. He has after all just offered to give Silence back her ability to speak. And Harry knows eating and drinking without a tongue is challenging as well. 

He is surprised when she shakes her head. An obvious indication of a refusal. 

“But… you will be able to speak,” Harry says, squeezing her hand with his own. “We can communicate with each other.”

Smith obligingly translates whenever the three of them are together, which hasn’t been often, and Harry is endlessly grateful for the Doctor’s linguistic skills. 

Silence shakes her head again. She looks, if anything, offended that Smith would offer. Harry thinks this must be due to the circumstances under which she cut off her tongue in the first place. He knows it is connected with the Tuunbaq. A creature she feared, but also somehow was beholden to, through the traditions of her people. Her lack of a tongue is symbolic. But here, in this new place, with untold wonders revealed to them… here, many unknowable years after their turmoil in the arctic, surely she can be lenient on herself and accept this profound boon. This gift of speech. 

Harry feels tears stinging at his eyes. He turns to Smith. “Can you tell her what I say next?” he asks, making certain. Smith nods, and Harry turns back to Silence. 

“Your home is gone,” he says, making his voice soft and kind, but firm. “My home is gone too. Neither of us can ever go back to where we came from. The Tuunbaq is dead. Your obligation to your people and to that beast is over now. Surely, considering that, you would wish to speak again?”

She listens to Smith’s translation of Harry’s words, her dark eyes solemnly trained on Harry’s face, but she does not immediately respond.

“It would help you,” Harry says, growing a little desperate at the stoney expression on her face. What he wants to say is _I adore you. I want you. I cannot bear to think of you living out the rest of your days with no way to speak to me, to the friends we might make together in this strange new place, to the children I want to have with you._ But he cannot say any of those things, for that would be frightfully presumptuous and embarrassing. 

“Please,” he is begging now. “Please allow this man to make you whole again. Please. We may speak to one another. You may teach me Inuktitut. You may eat and drink easily. Please say yes.” He has gripped both of her hands in his, is holding them tightly and staring beseechingly into her eyes. 

Something in the way he is asking her, pleading with her, must have some affect, for he sees her face soften. Sees her look at him the way she sometimes does, full of sadness and tenderness. When she got her memories back, the ones their new hosts tamped down to save them both from being too fearful in the beginning of their long stay here, she’d look like that at him quite often, and he wonders at what she might have seen. He thinks in these moments, when her eyes and mouth soften, she can tell how much he loves her. That she can see the swell of deep feeling for her that lives behind his breastbone, that flares up whenever she smiles at him. 

She holds his eyes for a few moments longer, and then nods. 

“Is that a yes?” Harry feels as if his stomach is full of butterfly wings and sunshine. “You’ll agree to it?” 

Smith translates, and Silence nods again. She looks begrudging, but resolute. She will accept the new tongue. 

Harry cannot help himself and surges forward to kiss her on the cheek. He’s never done this before, and she stares at him, wide eyed, her lips parted slightly. “I’m sorry,” he says with a laugh in his voice, giddy with relief. “I couldn’t help myself.” 

He hears Smith translate and watches with joy as her lips quirk up into a small smile. 

She turns to Smith with a question written across her features. _How? When?_ She can do that, ask a question with her face. They have been having rudimentary conversations this way for weeks. Simple needs and questions, conveyed through raises of her delicate brows and a twitch of her mouth, a scrunch of her nose.

“We can do it now, if you like,” Smith says, first in Inuktitut, then in English. 

Harry looks to her, knowing his face is wreathed with hope. “We can wait, can’t we?” he asks Smith. “If she’s not ready. She doesn’t have to do it right now, yes?”

“She does not,” Smith replies, then translates what they’ve just said and adds what sounds like more words. He turns back to Harry. “I am fully equipped to perform the procedure now. It will take no longer than a few minutes, and will be painless. I can make her unconscious, have her sleep through it if she wishes, or she may remain awake, but she cannot move around too much, and so that is up to her.” He translates for Silence, who looks at him for a long moment before nodding. Harry feels as if he could leap into the sky and fly about in the sunny air above the ice house with all the joy inside his chest. As if pure happiness were a buoyant substance that will lift him from the ground if he doesn’t cling to it. 

He is asked to wait outside, and this makes him pause, until Smith reassures him that she will be perfectly safe. He looks to Silence to ascertain that she is alright with this, and she gives him the small, eye-smile she does when she is reassuring him of her well being. He sighs and ducks down to exit the house. 

Outside there is little to do, other than look at the endless white of their surroundings and fret, and hope. He is sure that he trusts Smith. The man has a kindly bearing, and is a medical man of obvious talent and intelligence. This is not Doctor Stanley inside the ice house with the woman Harry loves. Stanley, cold, cruel, dismissive. Always trying to get Harry to leave his presence as soon as possible, and saying cutting things. The man’s tongue can slice as well as any scalpel.

Stanley is long gone though. And the mistreatment Harry received under his supervision has faded over many weeks spent in relative paradise with Silence by his side. And now she is being given back the gift of speech. He can almost not contain his excitement. 

What if however, she decides that she no longer cares for him. Perhaps her reliance on him these past several weeks was due only to his being a familiar face in an unknown land? What if she tells him _You repulse me. You disgust me. I am finally able to be rid of you and strike out on my own._ His old fears, that he is not good enough to deserve the love of someone like her, come back, resurfacing with a stab of apprehension through his gut. 

And then he remembers how it was _she_ who lay down beside him in his tent in the ship’s camp when he felt himself coming apart at the seams. She who placed that steadying hand on his arm to ease his panicked tremors. He remembers it was she who placed a hand over his heart as they parted, and looked at him with such affection and regret before they’d gone their separate ways. She does care for him. Of that he must be certain. 

Far too quickly, Smith comes out to join him. There is no blood on his hands or clothing. In fact, other than a small, leather satchel slung over his shoulder, Harry had not seen him with any medical equipment whatsoever. This is very curious, but Smith tells him that the surgery is done. He thinks they should give her a few moments to herself, and so the two men, both surgeons in their own way, stand together outside the ice house and wait. 

“How could you have reattached her tongue in such a short time, Doctor Smith?” Harry asks. It’s a bold question, but Smith is a kind and patient seeming man. 

“I would love to show you some day, Doctor Goodsir,” Smith replies with a smile. 

“I am no doctor,” Goodsir reminds him. “I am only a ship’s surgeon.”

“You are indeed a doctor,” Smith says. “And a good one. I would be happy to teach you all there is to know about what we’ve learned of medicine and the human body and science in the time since your ships were lost. It is too soon to do so, but eventually, we will get there. If you wish it.”

“I do!” Harry is fervent. “Nothing would please me more!” 

Smith smiles again. “I’m glad to hear you say that.” 

Harry feels the warmth of camaraderie with another medical man that he has not felt since his brief yet always enjoyable chats with Doctor Macdonald. He misses Macdonald fiercely sometimes. Misses many of the men. Having Crozier and Jopson still alive has been a blessing, to be sure, but sometimes, the weight of all the others who perished, it tugs painfully at his heart. 

“Will she feel any pain in recovery?” He asks Smith, and Smith shakes his head.

“There is no pain involved in any part of the procedure, or its aftermath,” he responds.

“Where did you find a compatible tongue?” Harry wonders if he is asking too many questions, but can also not help himself. 

“It is difficult to explain, but it was grown organically, separate from a human body. We can do that now. Grow parts of people, as if growing tomatoes in a garden.” Smith says this casually, as if he has not just completely rearranged Harry’s world into a new configuration in one small sentence.

“Dear lord,” Harry breathes, and Smith turns to him, a ghost of apprehension in his features, perhaps worried that he has said too much, but Harry only gazes back at him with awed fascination. “I cannot wait to learn more,” he says. 

________

  
  


Thomas hears Crozier’s boots thunking against the deck toward evening time. The sun is low on the horizon, and will soon dip below it for a few hours before rising again. Even though he knows he asked for this time alone, and even though he has been assured, by Crozier himself, as well as their mysterious hosts, that no danger will befall them in this place, he still feels a flood of relief at hearing Crozier’s return. 

As he hears Crozier descend the stairs, he cannot help but leave his room and go to meet the other man. Their day apart has done little to gain him much useful perspective. It’s only really hammered home the fact that he does not like to be separated from Crozier. 

“Hello Thomas,” Crozier says as they meet in the hallway outside Thomas’ quarters. 

“Hello sir,” Thomas replies, his stomach coming over with nervous flutters. “Would it be alright if I joined you for dinner, sir?

Crozier’s smile is like the sun, broad and bright. “Yes. I’d like that,” he says, and then it feels as if everything is alright again. Thomas is so relieved that Crozier isn’t mad at him, that he seems happy to see him, despite Thomas’ request that they spend the day apart, that he doesn’t even think of what transpired between them the morning before. He is ready to embark on a friendship with this man who was once his Captain, but is now his companion on a strange journey. 

Crozier surprises him by accompanying him to the galley. Not helping prepare the food per say, other than handing him a tin or two, and fetching himself a plate to put on the tray, but he stands close by, leans against a set of shelves, and talks with Thomas while he prepares their supper. “I walked for miles,” he tells Thomas. “Miles it felt like. And there was nothing. Nothing out there at all. It wasn’t the most eventful afternoon, but it did afford me with ample opportunity to think, and to move my legs.”

Thomas, who spent the majority of the day exploring the ship and taking his own walk in the opposite direction, nods. “I don’t know about you sir,” he says, “but I’m getting frightfully bored and soft with all this sitting around. I think no matter what this secret society of theirs entails, I’d sign up just for having something to do.” 

“I think that is actually their intention, Thomas,” Crozier says. “To make us warm and well fed and horribly bored before they offer us the opportunity to learn more. I feel the same. I would accept any task, believe any far fetched story at this point, if it provides me with something new to look at and a way to put my mind and body to good use.”

They make their way to Crozier’s quarters and have a good supper, talking amiably between bites of roast beef and potatoes, followed by cups of tea. Thomas does not want to overstay his welcome, and so, once the conversation dies down, he excuses himself. Crozier looks pleasingly disappointed, but wishes him a good evening nonetheless. 

_____

  
  


That evening, when he is safe in his bed, even though he knows he shouldn’t, that it will gain him nothing but frustration, Thomas lets his thoughts drift to Crozier. To his sunshine smile and his intent blue eyes. How they held Thomas’ while the two had talked over dinner. He cannot help but replay the feel of Crozier’s hair sliding against his hands, and the lovely sounds of arousal Crozier had made at the feel of Thomas’ touch. 

He is stiff and throbbing within seconds and cannot help but touch himself. He imagines what it would be like if Crozier loved him back. If Crozier… if _Francis_ truly wished to kiss him, to touch him, to share a life with him as his lover. What would Francis’ lips taste like? What would his skin feel like, sliding against Thomas’ under the sheets of a shared bed? 

“ _Francis._ ” He whispers Crozier’s first name, testing out the feel of it in his mouth as he works himself slowly with his hand. He imagines Francis calling him _Thomas_ , whispering it in Thomas’ ear, rough and urgent as he moves their bodies together. What would Francis sound like when he came apart? What would he taste like? 

Thomas moans and strokes himself faster. He stays quiet. An old habit he cannot drop, even in this new place with no other men on board, and Crozier’s quarters too far away to hear him. In his mind, it is Crozier’s hand on him, and Crozier’s lips are against his neck, and the weight of Crozier’s body is pressing between his legs. He imagines calling out Crozier’s first name, softly, hotly, into the small space between their mouths. _Francis, Francis, Francis…._

Thomas moans softly and spills with a sharp twist of pleasure and Francis’s name, a gasp on his lips. 

Afterward, when he’s cleaned himself up and is curled under the covers, feeling a small twinge of shame as he drifts off to sleep, he cannot help but imagine Francis Crozier’s warm body in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I truly think that while the Tuunbaq is a figment of Dan Simmons' imagination, an Inuk woman like Silna would very likely just flat out refuse to have her tongue replaced. It would be disrespectful to her people's traditions, and I'm aware that she would likely not be this easy to sway. But it's just more expedient and more romantic to have her cave more quickly when Goodsir begs her to do it. I just wanted to add a note here regarding that. This is a wish fulfillment fic, and I'm not taking the time to make it realistic. It's a time travel, future AU... And I want these two to talk!!


End file.
